Holding Grief with Gentleness This Season
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For those missing someone during the holidays And yet, another truth slowly reveals itself. Our loved ones are not only gone. They are also still here. They live in us, in our cells, our memories, our gestures, our way of seeing the world. When they die, something in us dies with them, but something also continues. Over the years, I have known a few people who struggle deeply during the holidays because they have lost someone they love. While the world celebrates, their grief feels louder. I have watched them carry sorrow quietly, feeling unseen and alone. That is what inspired me to write this. Not to fix grief, but to offer companionship. To remind you that you are not alone. There were moments when my own pain felt so deep that I wondered if happiness would ever return. My heart carried a kind of suffering I did not know how to explain. I did not have the words, but my body did. I cried. I cried for Eva. I cried for my grandmother. And every time, I noticed something simple and true. When I let myself cry, I felt a little more space inside. Tears were not a weakness. They were a love moving through me. Crying brought comfort, relief, and a softness I did not know I needed. When grief softens, memories often come forward, not to hurt me, but to warm me. When I think of Eva, my heart still smiles. I remember her playful spirit so clearly. She loved her stuffed animals. She would hold them in her mouth and shake them as fast as she could, her whole body moving with determination and joy. Because her hind legs did not work, she had to use her two front legs to balance herself, figuring out her own way of playing in the world. She loved peanut butter. I used it to cover her pills and every time I touched the peanut butter jar, she became so excited. She would yap loudly, her sweet voice filling the room. Sometimes she tried to howl, but no sound came out. It was clumsy and adorable, and it made me laugh every time. When she was playful, her body would spin around like a yo yo. Seeing her joy, despite her pain and limitations, taught me so much about resilience and love. Eva had a naturally happy attitude. Loving her came easily and she showed me how to stay open even when life is difficult. When I think of my grandmother, a quieter kind of warmth rises in me. She always saved the small, delicious food treats for me, the ones she knew I loved most. I remember following her everywhere when my mom was at work, staying close to her side. She loved to sew and was very good at it. Sometimes she asked me to help by threading the needle and she would pay me a little money for my help. I felt proud in those moments. At night, I would massage her feet, sitting beside her quietly. Those moments were simple, ordinary, and sacred at the same time. These memories do not erase the grief. But they soften it. They remind me that love was real, shared, and deeply felt. When I allow myself to remember, I feel them close , not as pain, but as presence. When a painful emotion rises now, I try not to run from it. I stop. I place a hand on my belly and feel my breath moving gently in and out. I guide my attention down from my busy mind into my body. In moments of storm, I picture a tree. The branches shake wildly and look fragile but the trunk remains steady and rooted. When I return to my breath, I remember that steadiness lives in me too. Some days, sitting still feels like too much, so I walk. Walking has become my way back to myself. I walk slowly, aware of my feet touching the earth, aware of the life around me. With each step, I let go of regrets about the past and worries about the future and come home to what is here. As I walk, I often imagine Eva beside me. Sometimes my grandmother too. My legs become their legs. My eyes become their eyes. When I see something beautiful, the sky, a tree, an animal, a quiet moment of light, I pause and let it sink in. I receive that beauty not only for myself but for them. The earth has been my refuge. She receives me without judgment. When I walk mindfully, I feel her support beneath my feet. The relief I am searching for is often already here, quietly waiting. There are times when grief feels heavier than one heart can hold. We are not meant to carry everything alone. When we allow others to listen, to sit with us, to walk beside us, something shifts. Pain softens when it is shared. We become part of something larger, like water flowing together instead of struggling alone. Sometimes healing is not dramatic. Sometimes it is just one breath that brings me back to the present moment. One breath that reminds me I am still here, still connected, still alive. Grief plants many seeds in us; sadness, longing, tenderness, and despair. But within us also live seeds of hope, compassion, and joy. What we want matters. When I name what I feel, its grip loosens. When I gently say to myself, I am sad, something softens. I do not fight my suffering. I allow space for its opposite to grow as well. There are moments when guilt or regret arise. Things unsaid. Words spoken without care. In those moments, I speak inwardly to my loved ones. I apologize. I say what I wish I had said. I begin anew. Sometimes, that conversation continues through writing. I sit quietly and imagine my loved one present within me. I write a letter, not to be sent, but to be felt. I let the words come without forcing. Apologies. Gratitude. Memories. Sharing what my life is like now. Writing like this does not reopen wounds. Often, it softens them. It allows love to keep moving and gives the heart a little more room to breathe. I also remind myself that moments of beauty and even happiness are allowed. Joy does not betray grief. It honors love. When I let myself receive beauty without guilt, I feel my loved ones close. I do not believe healing means forgetting. I believe it means learning how to walk with love and loss at the same time. Some days, that looks like tears. Some days, it looks like walking slowly. Some days, it looks like breathing and trusting that this moment will pass. Nothing is lost. Everything transforms. Love changes form but it does not disappear. You will not suffer forever. Nothing stays the same. With each breath, each step, freedom quietly becomes possible. Gentle Practices When Grief Arises You do not need to do all of these. Choose one. Let it be enough.
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