Reading · Grieve Fully, Live Fully

It’s that time of year again.

The tree is up, the kids are buzzing, and the calendar is packed with end-of-year catch-ups, concerts, and Christmas parties. Everywhere you look there’s sparkle and a sense of joyful energy — fairy lights, wrapping paper, supermarket carols on repeat. It’s supposed to be the “most wonderful time of the year”.

But if you’re grieving, it can also be one of the hardest.

Because this is the time when everyone seems to be celebrating — and someone you love isn’t here to share it. You see friends posting beach photos, families setting the table for gatherings, children running around with the kind of excitement that only comes in December. And somewhere beneath all that noise and colour, there’s an emptiness where your loss lives.

I remember our first Christmas without my dad. We were doing all the usual things — decorating the tree with our one-and-a-half year old, buying gifts, playing music — and yet everything felt slightly off-centre. His absence was loud. There were moments when I’d pause mid-conversation, aware of the space he used to fill. The holidays had always been about family, food, laughter — and suddenly one of the main ingredients was gone.

If this season feels complicated for you too, you’re not alone. Here are a few things that helped me find my footing through the celebrations, chaos, and nostalgia of December.

Hi, I’m Ruhie! Writer, doctor, mum & grief advocate. Welcome to Grieve Fully, Live Fully — a space for honest, heartfelt reflections on grief, growth, and the messy, beautiful middle of being human. Whether you’re navigating loss, facing life’s uncertainties and challenges, or simply seeking a little hope, you’re not alone.

There’s no rulebook for grief — and certainly not for grieving through the holidays. Some days you might be okay, even cheerful. Others might hit hard and unexpectedly. You might laugh at a silly gift exchange and tear up half an hour later in the car. All of it is valid.

In those early years, I thought I had to pick a lane — either “doing the holidays” or “being sad”. But grief doesn’t work like that. It sits alongside life, not instead of it. So when emotions bubbled up, even in the middle of a casual get-together, I didn’t shut them down. When laughter came later that night, I tried not to question it. Both have a place.

Try to give yourself the same permission. Feel what you feel, when you feel it. You’re not doing the holidays wrong — you’re just doing them honestly.

December has a way of snowballing before you even notice. Work deadlines pile up, school is finishing, every social group wants to have “one last get-together before Christmas”. It’s so lovely, but it can also be exhausting — especially when your emotional tank is already half-empty.

It helps to plan ahead and decide what you actually have energy for. Ask yourself:

What actually matters to me this year?
What can I simplify or skip?
Who do I genuinely want to spend time with?

One of my patients once told me that after her husband died, the thought of hosting the big family Christmas lunch she’d done for years felt unbearable. So instead, she and her two children booked a trip to Bali. They spent the holidays swimming, reading, and eating at a small beach café. “It was the first Christmas that felt peaceful instead of painful”, she’d said. Her story reminded me that sometimes planning ahead isn’t about adding more — it’s about giving yourself permission to do less, or to do it differently.

The key is to lower the bar of expectation. You don’t have to do “everything”. Do what feels manageable this season, with as much self-compassion as possible.

Grief already drains your emotional battery. Add to that the stress and chaos of the holidays and it will drain whatever’s left. Protecting your time and energy isn’t selfish — it’s survival.

It’s completely fine to say “I’d love to come, but I’m not up for a late night” or “I might just pop in for a bit”.

It’s okay to skip the present-giving or Secret Santa.

It’s okay to tell someone “This year is hard for me — thanks for understanding”.

You don’t owe anyone an elaborate explanation. People who care will get it. And those who don’t? That’s on them, not you.

Boundaries aren’t about shutting people out. They’re about preserving enough energy to show up in ways that feel genuine.

This one can be tricky. There’s often guilt attached to enjoying yourself after loss — as if smiling means you’ve moved on or forgotten. But grief and joy can coexist.

One summer evening a couple of years ago, we were decorating the Christmas tree with my kids and I remember thinking I was actually having fun. For a second, that tiny voice whispered: How can you be happy when he’s gone? But then another, kinder voice replied: Because he would’ve wanted you to be.

Grieving doesn’t mean you have to stay sad. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to feel excited. You’re allowed to love the smell of pine, or sing Christmas carols off-tune, or revel in the chaos of kids tearing into presents. Feeling joy doesn’t erase your loss; it honours your capacity to still feel alive.

Sometimes the simplest gestures bring the most comfort. You can light a candle, cook their favourite dish, play their favourite song, hang an ornament that reminds you of them, or raise a glass in their honour.

For us, it’s as simple as keeping Dad’s photo on the sideboard through December, or cooking one of his favourites for a family meal. My kids, who never got to know him, now ask questions about him every year, and those conversations have become something I really treasure.

You can find your own version of that — something small that keeps their presence woven into the season, without weighing it down.

The hardest part about holiday grief is how isolating it can feel. Everyone seems busy, cheerful, moving on with life. Meanwhile you’re just trying to get through the next event without falling apart.

That’s why support matters. Reach out to someone who understands. You can say something like “This time of year’s a bit tough — can we catch up soon?” or “I’d love a quiet morning together instead of a big lunch.” Sometimes the simplest connection can be incredibly meaningful.

And if you’re supporting someone grieving this year, know that your presence — a message, a walk, a quick check-in — really can make a world of difference.

Between the summer heat (or winter cold, depending where you are), the busyness, and the emotional load, it’s easy to forget the basics. But they matter more than ever. Eat something nourishing. Stay hydrated. Spend time in nature. Keep a few steady routines. Rest when you can.

I’ve learned to treat December like a marathon, not a sprint. It helps to find quiet pockets of calm — a hot cup of coffee before the house wakes up, folding laundry with a podcast on, playing with the kids outside on the grass, or pausing to feel the breeze on your face. Those little routines keep me grounded, even when my heart feels heavy.

You don’t need elaborate self-care. You just need to keep showing up for yourself in small, consistent ways.

The holidays don’t have to be all or nothing — pure joy or pure sorrow. They can be a complicated mix of both. Some moments will sting. Others will surprise you with their warmth.

Grief doesn’t vanish just because the calendar says it’s time to celebrate. But it also doesn’t mean you can’t find moments of peace, laughter, or connection along the way.

If this season feels hard, take it one day, one event, one conversation at a time. Skip what drains you. Keep what helps you feel close to the people you love, both here and gone.

And remember: you’re not failing the holidays. You’re surviving them — which, for some of us, is the bravest thing we’ll do all year.

Until next time,

I’d love to hear from you!

What’s helped you through the holidays after a loss?
Do you have any rituals, boundaries, or small comforts that make this time a little gentler?

#49 Surviving the holidays when you're grieving

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