The holidays can be complicated, especially when grief is part of the equation. As I step into this Christmas season, I’ve been reflecting on how far I’ve come in my own journey with loss and how that journey has shaped my relationship with this time of year. I know I’m not alone in this—so many of us face the holidays year after year carrying the weight of missing loved ones. It’s a journey that’s deeply personal, but also one that connects us in its universal truth: life goes on, even when the ones we love are no longer here to share it with us.
This is simply where I am on my journey, and I want to share it in the hope that it might inspire or encourage someone else. Grief is a road we walk at our own pace, and no two experiences look the same. For me, this year marks a turning point—a moment where I feel ready to embrace Christmas not as a season to dread, but as one to honor both the losses and the love that have shaped my life.
What follows is my reflection on what it’s been like to arrive at this place, the challenges I’ve faced, and the hope I’ve discovered. My world continues on, even with the empty spaces my loved ones have left behind. And so, I decorate, not just for the season but for the life that still unfolds in front of me—a life they’ve helped shape in countless ways.
Christmas has always been a season steeped in tradition for me, a time when my family would come together to transform the house into a sparkling winter wonderland. The ornaments we hung, the lights we strung, even the scent of cinnamon and pine—each piece carried a memory, a moment, a story. But this year is different. This year, for the first time in a truly present way, and because of all I’ve learned through the holidays that have come and gone while processing this compound grief, I am embracing Christmas with true hope for the future.
Grief has a way of casting a long shadow over the things we once loved. For years, I avoided fully decorating for Christmas, as if leaving the boxes unopened could somehow shield me from the pain of remembering. The holidays became something to endure rather than celebrate—a stark reminder of all I had lost. But something has shifted this year. The weight of all their absences, once paralyzing, feels somehow lighter, more bearable. For the first time, I find myself not just willing but eager to decorate, to step into the bittersweet joy of it all.
It’s a strange and beautiful thing to arrive at this place. This isn’t about “moving on” or forgetting; it’s about honoring the people I’ve lost in a way that feels alive, vibrant, and true to who they were. The grief is still there, but so is the joy. And this year, I’m letting them coexist.
Every ornament I unpack holds a story. There are the delicate crochet angels my mother hand-made the year before my adoption was final. She would restarch them every few years, teaching me the process and the purpose of it. Those angels hold the essence and energy of all the prayers, hopes, and wishes she carried during that time. Then there are the ornaments I’ve made over the years, tiny picture frames holding photos of my soul dog and other pets who have deeply touched and blessed my life, from childhood to now. Each one has crossed the rainbow bridge, but their love remains woven into the fabric of my memories.
And then there are the ornaments I’ve been gifted or have inherited from friends and loved ones—each one carrying a little piece of their spirit and our connection, a quiet reminder of the connections that have shaped me. These decorations aren’t just objects; they’re pieces of my story, tangible reminders of the people, moments, and relationships that have brought light and love into my life.
Memories like these can be heavy. For years, the thought of revisiting them felt unbearable. The simple act of opening a box of Christmas decorations would summon waves of grief that seemed too big to face. How could I hang my mother’s favorite ornament without hearing her voice, without feeling the profound ache of her absence? How could I string those lights and not think of my father untangling them, his face lit with laughter and patience?
The holidays often demand a forced kind of cheer, one that can feel almost hostile when you’re grieving. Decorating became a reminder of what wasn’t there rather than what still was. It felt safer to keep the decorations mostly packed away, to shield myself from the flood of emotions they brought. For two years in a row, I limited myself to decorating only the mantle and a single, very tiny tree—a stark contrast to the multiple trees of varying sizes and themes that used to fill my home. In doing so, though, I robbed myself of the beauty and warmth those traditions carried.
This year, something is different. Instead of being a source of pain, those memories feel like gifts. Each decoration I pull out reminds me of love, joy, and connection—a past I can cherish rather than run from. The sadness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened, leaving room for something else: gratitude. These small, glittering mementos remind me that grief and joy are two sides of the same coin. I don’t have to choose one or the other; they can coexist, shining side by side, much like the lights on the tree.
This year, for the first time, I feel ready to meet Christmas on its own terms, with all its joy, all its sorrow, and all its messy in-between. It hasn’t been an easy road to get here. Grief doesn’t follow a straight line—it loops and tangles, and for a long time, I felt stuck in its darkest corners. But over time, and through many quiet, reflective moments, something shifted. I began to see that my grief wasn’t just a reminder of what I had lost; it was also a testament to the depth of love I was privileged to experience.
Long ago, I realized I didn’t need to “get over” my loss to embrace the season. Instead, I came to understand that I could embrace it with the loss, letting my memories of my loved ones guide me rather than hold me back. Still, it’s taken time to reach a place where I feel truly ready and actively able to do that. Their absence remains profound, but so does their presence in the traditions they left behind. Their laughter still echoes in my mind, their love lingers in every ornament, every recipe, every ritual. And I’ve come to see that decorating, far from being a painful reminder of what’s missing, can instead be a powerful act of honoring them.
This year, I’m allowing myself to fully feel both the weight of their loss and the lightness of the season’s hope. It’s a decision to stop resisting the emotions that come with Christmas and to lean into them instead. By doing so, I’m finding something unexpected: a sense of peace, even excitement, for what this holiday can mean moving forward. It’s not about recreating the past; it’s about building something new that still honors where I’ve been and who I’ve loved.
Embracing the loss has become a way of celebrating the people who made Christmas so special in the first place. And in doing that, I’m giving myself permission to love the season again—not in spite of the grief, but because of the love that still shines through it.
Decorating this year feels different. It’s not just about filling the house with festive cheer—it’s about creating a space where love, memory, and joy can live together. Each decoration I place feels like a conversation with the past, a way of saying, I remember you. I love you. You’re still here with me.
As I unpack these treasures, I’m struck by how much they embody the love that surrounded me growing up. They remind me that while the people I’ve lost may not be here physically, their spirit is woven into every tradition, every memory, every twinkling light. Decorating becomes a way to keep their presence alive, to invite their joy and laughter back into my home.
There’s something healing about the act of decorating itself. The process of transforming the space feels like a reflection of the transformation happening within me. The boxes that once felt like emotional minefields now feel like treasure chests, filled with pieces of a past that I am learning to hold with tenderness rather than resistance.
Decorating has always been about making a house feel like home, but this year, it feels like so much more. It’s a way of turning grief into gratitude, of honoring the past while embracing the present. It’s an act of love—for my family, for myself, and for the life I’m still building, one ornament at a time.
As I prepare to decorate, I know it won’t all be easy. Grief has a way of sneaking up on you, even in moments of joy. There will be times when the weight of a memory feels overwhelming—when I pick up an ornament and am hit with the ache of not being able to share this moment with the people who made it special. There may be tears, moments when I have to step back and simply sit with the emotions as they come.
But I also know there will be blessings in this process. The act of decorating feels like an invitation to reflect not just on what I’ve lost but on what I’ve been given: a family that loved me deeply and a lifetime of memories that continue to shape who I am. In those moments of nostalgia, I anticipate a kind of bittersweet comfort—a recognition that, while grief is part of my story, it doesn’t define it.
I’m also looking forward to the surprises that this journey might bring. Perhaps I’ll find unexpected joy in rediscovering a forgotten decoration or in the simple beauty of a quiet evening spent arranging lights on the tree. Maybe I’ll even laugh at an old memory, the kind that sneaks in and reminds you of how vibrant and funny life can be, even in its imperfection.
What I’m most hopeful for, though, is the sense of connection I know I’ll feel. As I place each ornament, string each light, and step back to admire the glow, I’ll feel the presence of my family with me, not in a haunting or heavy way, but in the warmth of love that never really leaves. And I’ll feel a connection to myself, to the person I’m becoming—a person who has carried the weight of loss and is still standing, still decorating, still finding beauty in this season.
The challenges will be real, but so will the blessings. And as I take this step, I am holding onto the belief that both can coexist, that both are part of the process of healing. This year, decorating isn’t just about Christmas—it’s about hope, resilience, and love.
Standing on the brink of this decorating journey, I feel a sense of anticipation that’s both tender and exhilarating. The act of decorating, once avoided and postponed, has become something I’m truly looking forward to—a chance to fill my space with warmth, memory, and light. It’s not just about honoring the family I’ve lost, but about honoring myself and the life I continue to build in their absence.
This year, the lights will shine a little brighter, not because the grief is gone, but because I’ve made space for it alongside the joy. The ornaments will feel like little pieces of love, strung together in a tapestry that spans decades. And the house, once so quiet during the holidays, will once again hum with the spirit of Christmas, even if that spirit looks and feels a little different now.
I don’t expect this to be perfect. There will be moments of sadness, moments where the weight of loss feels heavy again. But I also believe in the beauty of what’s to come: the laughter I’ll find in small memories, the peace I’ll feel in carrying on traditions, and the quiet hope that this season always brings, even in the darkest of times.
As I prepare to begin, I remind myself that this process isn’t just about decorating my home—it’s about decorating my heart with everything my family has given me. It’s about making room for love, resilience, and hope to coexist with loss. It’s about letting the lights I string this year guide me forward, one step at a time, toward a future that feels both bright and full of possibility.
And once it’s done, I’ll reflect again, adding an update to this story to share how it all unfolded. But for now, I’m stepping into the season with open hands, ready to embrace the challenges and blessings that lie ahead.
As I close this reflection, my heart is full of gratitude—for the memories that shape me, for the lessons grief has taught me, and for the quiet hope that continues to grow within me. Wherever you are on your journey, whether you’re just beginning to navigate the weight of loss or have carried it for years, I want you to know you are not alone. The holidays can be a tender time, filled with both joy and sorrow, but they also hold space for healing, connection, and love.
My wish for you is simple: that you find moments of peace amid the complexity, sparks of joy in unexpected places, and the courage to embrace whatever this season holds for you. There is no “right” way to navigate grief or celebrate the holidays—there is only your way, and that is enough.
May your decorations, whether simple or extravagant, reflect the beauty of the love that’s shaped your life. And may you feel surrounded by the warmth of memories and the light of hope as you step forward into this season and beyond. From my heart to yours, I send love, encouragement, and the deepest wish for a Christmas that feels meaningful and true to where you are.
The Twin Tree Project 