When grief becomes an unexpected companion in your daily life, people often struggle to find the right words. Recently, someone said to me, 'If my child died, I'd take my own'life'—their misguided attempt to express understanding of my pain after losing my 28-year-old son this year. I sat with those words, heavy and sharp, wondering how we've reached a point where suggesting suicide is seen as an appropriate response to someone's grief.
Last Christmas, I didn't know it would be our final celebration together. The last hugs, the last shared laughs, the last time I'd hear him call me Dad. Now those precious memories are simultaneously my greatest comfort and my deepest source of pain. That's what people don't understand about grief—it's not a simple emotion you can imagine your way into. It's a complete reconstruction of your world.
As the festive season surrounds us with demands for joy and celebration, I need to speak about an uncomfortable truth: Christmas isn't the'most wonderful time of the year' for everyone. For many of us, the season is marked by empty seats at dinner tables, carefully wrapped presents that remain unopened, and traditions that now feel like raw wounds. Constant holiday cheer can exacerbate already raw emotions.
To those who try to comprehend another's grief by saying a few unthoughtful words. Please stop. Your words, though perhaps well-intentioned, don't honour the lives we've lost or support those left behind. They dismiss the incredible strength it takes to wake up each morning and choose to keep living, to keep carrying our loved ones' memories forward, to keep their spirit alive through our own continued existence.
Living isn't the easy choice—it's the courageous one. Every day, I choose to live fully, not despite my grief, but with it. Because every sunrise I witness, every moment I experience, every smile I manage to share—these are all things I do now for both of us.
My son's life was cut tragically short, but through my living, his impact on this world continues. To those supporting grieving parents, especially during the holidays: We don't need you to imagine our pain or suggest dramatic responses. We need you to sit with us in our sorrow without trying to fix it. Share memories of our children. Speak their names. Acknowledge that while the world keeps spinning, our hearts are still learning to beat in a different rhythm.
Often, a simple 'I remember when...' or 'I'm here for you' holds greater significance than any attempted words of wisdom. And to my fellow grieving parents navigating this season of enforced merriment: Your pain is valid. Your grief is valid. Your different way of experiencing the holidays is valid. You don't have to pretend. You don't have to meet anyone else's expectations. And most importantly, you don't have to apologise for not being 'over it.
' There is no 'getting over' the loss of a child; there is only getting through, one moment at a time. For anyone struggling with grief this holiday season: Your life has immeasurable value. Your story isn't over. Your love for your child—and theirs for you—transcends death itself. And it's okay to reach out for help when the weight feels too heavy to carry alone.
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