December's early darkness brings a particular kind of quiet. While strings of holiday lights create their magical glow and seasonal music fills the air, there's also a deeper stillness that invites reflection. It's in this space that I often find myself thinking about how life's most profound lessons often come wrapped in unexpected packages.
Thirty-four years ago, just a week before Christmas, my dad died unexpectedly. In that moment, everything about the season shifted - the twinkling lights that had always filled me with childlike wonder, the cherished traditions that marked each year, the simple joy of family gatherings. Like a sudden frost changing the landscape, loss transformed how I experienced this time of celebration.
The holidays have always held a special magic for me. Growing up, I'd feel that delicious anticipation as Christmas approached - the excitement of Santa's arrival, the warmth of family together, the way everything seemed to sparkle with possibility. Those memories remain a precious part of who I am, like treasured ornaments carefully preserved through the years.
But life, like nature, rarely follows a single path. Just as a river finds new channels after encountering an obstacle, grief carved new ways of experiencing the season. That first Christmas without Dad taught me something profound about the human heart - how it can hold both sorrow and joy, how the very traditions that bring comfort can also stir sadness, and how healing often comes through finding new ways to honor both.
One of those first years, in our earnest attempts to maintain some connection to our old traditions while creating something new to honor Dad, something happened that sent us all into fits of genuine laughter. That moment taught us something precious - that joy and remembrance aren't opposites, but partners in healing. Sometimes the most authentic way to honor those we've lost is to allow ourselves to find new ways of being together, to let laughter and tears mingle freely.
After a couple of years of trying to maintain our traditional Christmas celebrations, we began to see that the familiar rhythm of dinner and presents by the tree only highlighted what had changed. The empty chair at dinner spoke volumes, and each rustling of gift wrap echoed with memories of holidays past. We were different too - Mom's desire to maintain the Christmas magic through generous giving remained strong, but my brother and I, as young adults, no longer needed piles of presents to feel the spirit of the season.
This realization led us to understand something important: honoring cherished memories doesn't mean we have to remain tethered to their exact form. Like a stream finding a new path, we could flow toward joy in different ways. That's when we discovered our new tradition - traveling to Lake Tahoe for Christmas.
The choice felt natural. My brother lived in California , making Tahoe an easy destination. The location held gentle echoes of family trips from our youth, not our primary holiday memories but sweet touchstones nonetheless. Most importantly, it offered what we needed: the gift of snow at Christmas, opportunities to venture outside for cross-country skiing, and the chance to be together in a setting that didn't amplify what was missing but rather celebrated what remained - our love for each other and the ability to create new memories.
Some years we chose different destinations, but the essence remained the same. We had discovered that healing doesn't always mean filling the exact space that loss creates. Sometimes it means opening ourselves to new possibilities, like winter light finding unexpected paths through bare branches.
What I've learned in the years since is that this experience isn't unique to grief. Many of us carry hidden stories during the holiday season - losses both fresh and familiar, complicated family dynamics, or personal struggles that feel particularly heavy against the backdrop of expected festivity. Like trees in winter, we may appear similar on the surface while carrying our own unique patterns of growth and adaptation beneath.
This understanding feels particularly relevant during the holiday season, when the contrast between celebration and sorrow can feel especially stark. The very things that make this time magical - the twinkling lights, familiar carols, cherished traditions - can also sharpen our awareness of loss or change. Like the December landscape itself, we learn to hold both light and shadow, finding beauty in how they dance together.
For those navigating their own complex emotions this holiday season, whether from grief, change, or other challenges, remember:
Your experience is valid, even if it differs from the expected holiday narrative
There's no "right" way to honor both memory and present moment
Sometimes the gentlest path forward is creating something entirely new
Unexpected moments of joy don't diminish the depth of your love
Sharing your story might help light the way for others
As another December unfolds, I find myself grateful for the lessons that loss and love have taught me. Nature shows us that adaptation isn't about forgetting our roots but about finding new ways to grow from them. Each year, as holiday lights begin to twinkle and seasonal songs fill the air, I'm reminded that our hearts, like December itself, have room for both the deepest darkness and the brightest light. In honoring both, we create something beautiful and true.
May you find moments of peace and unexpected joy this season,
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