Grief Is a Grinch: The Raw Truth of Surviving the Holidays After Loss

Grief Is a Grinch: The Raw Truth of Surviving the Holidays After Loss

Grief strips the joy from the holiday season, and suddenly, you understand the Grinch.

The first few years of grief during the holidays are brutal in a way no one really prepares you for. Everything hurts. Everything feels unfair. Memories arrived uninvited. I felt like I was failing at joy, when really, I was surviving loss in a season that demands cheer. 

In the beginning, seeing happy families together felt like a personal insult. Traditions I once loved suddenly felt like reminders of what I had lost. Family Christmas cards in the mail made me roll my eyes - especially the ones with a full recap of everyone’s achievements for the year, each family member getting their own paragraph. Really? I’d think. No one cares. It wasn’t that I wanted anything bad to happen to them - it was that my own world had fallen apart, and the contrast was unbearable.

Every holiday song felt like a knife to the chest. Every commercial, every decoration, every “most wonderful time of the year” lyric caught me off guard and left me crying over nothing and everything at the same time. Grief turned ordinary moments into ambushes. A quick trip to the store, a song on the radio, a card in the mailbox - each one another small jab at a heart already aching.

And then there was the jealousy. The resentment. The irritation I didn’t recognize as myself. I felt like the Grinch in a season that demanded cheer, generosity, gratitude. I didn’t want to feel that way, but the pain and the void were so large it felt inevitable. These are the parts of grief we don’t talk about - the taboo thoughts, the reactions that feel ugly but are actually deeply human.

What no one tells you is that healing doesn’t mean “moving on.” It means learning how to move differently.

Over time - slowly, unevenly - I began to realize I couldn’t go forward the way I used to. But I couldn’t stay frozen either. The holidays still sucked, but I started focusing on creating something new. New traditions. Altered traditions. A version of the holidays that could exist alongside the grief instead of trying to erase it.

Some traditions I let go of. Others I kept alive, even when it hurt. After my mom and dad passed, I found myself hosting the holidays - something I never fully appreciated until I was suddenly the one doing it. Rushing around the kitchen, coordinating everything, trying to create warmth out of exhaustion, I swear I feel them with me. I channel my mother without even realizing it - the way she made Christmas magic happen effortlessly, the way everything felt held.

That first year after my husband passed, it was just the three of us - me and my two kids. The loss was enormous, a void that felt impossible to fill. I felt my children's pain as sharply as my own; suddenly the world of traditions and joy I had known was stripped down to its bare bones. How could we possibly have a “happy” holiday with so much absence? What exactly was there to celebrate? It felt wrong. 

Those first few years we just needed to sit in it - the sadness, the grief - and truly acknowledge it. I didn’t try to pretend everything was happy. I knew it sucked, and I said it out loud, many times. We vented to each other, held space for one another, and let the heaviness exist without shame. The Christmas magic, as we knew it, was gone. I remember my kids opening their gifts solemnly, the quiet hope on their faces cracking almost immediately as they burst into tears, yelling, “I miss Daddy!”, before running upstairs. The pain of witnessing that as a mother - a helplessness so deep - is something I would not wish on anyone. And yet, even in that honesty, even in that stripped down version of the holidays, something quietly held us together.

And each passing year, in that heaviness, we kept going. I tried to honor them - my parents, my husband - by seeing if there was any trace of magic left to revive. I wish I had told my mom how much I appreciated her efforts when she was here. That regret still stings. I'd give anything to hear one of my father's stories that he told a million times once again. 

But continuing traditions, even in the midst of grief, became a way to hold onto them quietly, to honor them, and to give my children a thread of continuity in a world that suddenly felt so empty. It’s sad. It still hurts. And yet, it matters.

Now, years later, I don’t wince when I receive a happy Christmas card in the mail. I'm not sure exactly when it happened but I can genuinely feel happy for people. I can hear the music without collapsing. But it’s important to say this clearly: this is not how it is in the beginning. And if you’re there right now, nothing is wrong with you.

In the early years, grief is loud and intrusive. It hijacks your nervous system. It turns joy into threat and celebration into pain. You’re not bitter - you’re wounded. And slowly, with time and intention, those sharp edges soften. Not because you forget, but because you learn how to carry it.

Over the years, my traditions have shifted. The big cookie baking days or driving around to look at Christmas lights - while lovely - didn’t feel enough anymore. So now, our little family ritual is simpler but intentional: we grab a few boxes of candy canes, attach a card with an uplifting or inspiring message, and leave them on car windshields or door handles. It’s a small gesture, but in a season that can be so heavy, I hope it brings someone a moment of surprise, a glimmer of joy, a reason to smile. It’s a way of keeping the magic alive, even if it looks nothing like it did before, and it reminds me that even in grief, I can create light for others while carrying the love of those I’ve lost.

I wish I could sit here and tell you that the holidays get easier. It’s been six years for me, and the sense of dread still appears each season - sometimes quietly, sometimes in waves I can’t ignore. But it’s not as sharp as it once was. Grief has softened, and it’s opened up an empathy I didn’t know I had before. It’s made me more aware of the invisible burden's others carry, the quiet hearts sitting at tables that look perfect from the outside.

Sometimes the most healing thing you can do is keep going - imperfectly, painfully - while letting grief sit at the table with you.

By writing this, my message to you is simple: you are not alone. The ache, the jealousy, the exhaustion - it’s real, and it’s valid. You can hold it without letting it define you. And even in the midst of this grief, there is space for small pockets of light, moments of love, and ways to carry those you’ve lost forward in your own rituals. 

You’re not failing, and you’re not the Grinch - you’re surviving, and one day, without even realizing it, you may find yourself creating something meaningful again - not in spite of your grief, but because of it. Sometimes the most healing thing you can do is keep going - imperfectly, painfully - while letting grief sit at the table with you.

And if you happen to be reading this and haven’t experienced grief yourself, know that so many people are quietly carrying it. The holidays can be a season of unseen struggles, hidden tears, and private pain. So be gentle, be kind, and remember that what looks joyful on the outside often masks a story you may never fully see. A little compassion goes a long way.

In devotion to your healing, 

Jean