Hi there, dreamers and deep thinkers,
It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting in my home alone. The silence feels heavier today, more oppressive, as if the weight of my grief has decided this is the day to settle in. There’s no family gathering to look forward to, no children running around, no partner to exchange a knowing smile with. It’s just me and this aching emptiness.
Christmas has always been about my mother. Every year, I made it my mission to show her just how much she was loved and appreciated. She deserved every bit of it—her joy was my joy, her smile my greatest reward. Now that she’s gone, I feel untethered, like a ship without an anchor.
I miss her today. I miss her every day, but today the ache cuts deeper, stings sharper. There’s something about this season, the lights, the music, the traditions—it all reminds me of her warmth, her love, her steady presence. And today, I feel that absence like a physical wound.
My thoughts keep drifting to the “what ifs.” What if I had a family of my own now, people to share the day with? I’m over 40, with no partner and no kids, and that realization burns a little brighter in the shadow of Christmas. Things would feel different if she were still here—her love would have eased some of this longing.
It’s taking everything in me not to give in to the pain. The temptation to crawl into bed and stay there until January is strong. There’s a part of me that whispers, “Why not? Who would even notice?” But another part—the one she raised—knows she wouldn’t want that for me.
My birthday is just days away. It’s always been overshadowed by the holidays, often forgotten by everyone except my mother. She never let it slip by unnoticed, though. She made sure I felt loved, celebrated, and seen, even when the rest of the world seemed too busy.
This year, the thought of my birthday without her feels unbearable. She was always the one who made it meaningful, her love wrapping around the day like a warm embrace. She was the one constant, and now, her absence is the loudest silence I’ve ever known.
But amidst all this pain, I find a flicker of hope. Today, I picked up the Bible, something I’ve been meaning to do for a while. I don’t know where it will lead me, but it feels like a step toward her—a way to connect with her spirit, her faith, her essence.
In two days, I plan to smoke my last cigarette. It’s a decision that feels monumental and tiny all at once. Part of me feels inspired by her, like she’s nudging me to take better care of myself. But I also know these changes are for me, selfish in the best way, an act of self-preservation.
Grief has a way of making every moment feel like an eternity. But I’m trying to remind myself that grief is love, too—love with nowhere to go. It’s messy and brutal, but it’s also a testament to how deeply she mattered.
I’m allowing myself to feel sad today. I’m allowing the tears to fall because they need to. But I’m also holding on to the idea that this pain won’t last forever, even if it feels endless right now. She wouldn’t want me to drown in it.
So, I’m sitting here, trying to take it one breath at a time. I’m lighting a candle in her memory, letting its glow remind me of her light. I’m whispering prayers and promises into the quiet, hoping she hears them somehow. And I’m writing this, sharing my heart with you, because I know I’m not alone in this experience.
Grief on Christmas is uniquely cruel, but it’s also an invitation. It invites us to reflect, to honor, to remember. It’s not easy, and it’s certainly not festive, but it’s real—and maybe that’s enough.
As this day unfolds, I’ll do my best to stay present. I’ll read, I’ll write, I’ll cry, and maybe I’ll laugh at a memory or two. I’ll take one small step toward healing, even if it feels insignificant in the moment. And I’ll carry her love with me, as I always do.
If you’re struggling today too, know that I love and grief are two of the most vital parts of life. Your grief, your longing, your heartache—they’re all valid. But so is your strength, your resilience, your ability to keep going, even when it feels impossible.
Stay curious,
With love,
April
Cognitive Psycho
