It’s my fourth holiday season without Tom. Facebook’s “On This Day” feature has been particularly aggressive lately, serving up memories of holidays past like a relentless digital ghost. Here’s Tom and me at Christmas dinner with family. Here we are making latkes with friends. Here we are camping in Death Valley. Each photo is a reminder of not just what was, but what isn’t anymore.
I’ve always loved celebrations, even ones that aren’t technically “mine.” Growing up, I got to experience a mix of traditions—mostly Catholic until my mom died when I was 12, with a dash of Hanukkah from my father’s Jewish side of the family. What I learned from this blend wasn’t so much about religious significance as it was about the joy of gathering, the pleasure of good food, and the warmth of giving gifts. Even now, as a Buddhist adult, I’ve kept these celebrations alive in my own way, decorating a Christmas tree and hosting an annual latke dinner, creating my own meaning from these inherited traditions.
This is the first year since Tom died that I’m alone for Christmas. My daughter, stepson, and mother-in-law are all traveling. I keep telling people I’m fine with being alone—after all, December 25th is just another day when you strip away the cultural expectations. But there’s something undeniably hard about being alone on a day when it seems like everyone else is gathered with family. Especially when my own memories of the day are so vivid and happy.
Yesterday, I visited a hospice patient who’s unlikely to see New Year’s. We didn’t talk about the December holidays—I’m not even sure if she’s aware of them or if she cares about them. She wanted to talk about dying and what I knew about it from talking to other hospice patients. It was a good reminder that December 25 is not in and of itself anything special. I know her adult children feel like they should be with her on Christmas. They’ve decorated her house with a tree and replaced all the usual kitchen towels and potholders with red and green ones.
But grief and dying don’t care what the date on the calendar is. None of the holiday traditions can outweigh them. The tension between what dying people and grieving people feel and the insistence around them that this is “the happies time of the year” can make their grief feel even more isolating, as if they’re the only ones not participating in the mandatory joy
When I tell people I’ll be alone for Christmas, they immediately try to fix it. “Come to our house!” they say, or “No one should be alone on Christmas!” I appreciate their kindness, but sometimes being alone is easier than being the widow at someone else’s family celebration, watching their intact family traditions and trying to smile through the stomach-punch of grief that hits when someone makes a comment I know Tom would appreciate or a dish I know he would love is served.
I’ve noticed some folks in the Facebook Widow groups answering the question about whether they’ll be alone for the holidays with “I’ll be with my dogs,” “I’ll be with my cats,” or even, “I’ll be hanging out with my plants.” I love the way they are pushing pack on the idea that you’re alone if you’re not with other humans. And this reminds me that I won’t, in fact, be alone on Christmas: I’ll be with my two dogs, who are very cuddly in the winter.
Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves during the holidays is to accept that they’re going to be different now. Different doesn’t have to mean worse. This year, my Christmas plan involves Chinese food, snuggling with my dogs, and zero obligation to make conversation. That actually sounds pretty great.
I might spend some time looking at those Facebook memories, letting myself feel whatever comes up. I might text friends who are also alone or grieving. I might watch terrible holiday movies or ignore the holiday completely. The point is, I get to choose.
For others navigating holiday grief, whether it’s your first season without your person or your fifth, I want you to know that there’s no right way to do this. If you want to maintain all the old traditions, do it. If you want to create new ones, do that. If you want to pretend the holidays aren’t happening this year, that’s fine too. The only rule is to be gentle with yourself.
Elizabeth Kleinfeld is a disabled widow who blogs about grief, disability, Buddhist life, and joy. Sign up for her free monthly newsletter here.