What do you do when the holidays hurt?
We all know the script.
“This is the most wonderful time of the year.”
There are lights, parties, ugly sweaters, kids’ events, office potlucks… and underneath all of that, some of us are just trying not to fall apart in the car before we walk inside.
In 2020, my mother died from stage IV cancer.
We were not ready. It felt like the floor dropped out from under our family. One minute, we were still arguing about recipes and sending each other memes, and the next minute, we were trying to learn a new language: life without her.
My siblings and I didn’t magically pull together and become this super-bonded grief squad. We scattered. Everybody hurt in their own corner. And I think, in our own ways, we all felt abandoned and like we were abandoning each other at the same time.
Then the holidays came.
For me, the holidays stopped being “festive” and started feeling like a series of emotional landmines.
I developed panic attacks and serious social anxiety around gatherings. Small talk felt impossible. I’d walk into a room full of people laughing and suddenly feel like my throat was closing up. I’d smile, make a joke, refill my plate—on the outside, it looked fine. On the inside, my nervous system was sprinting.
And then there were the recipes.
My mom’s handwriting is all over our family’s holidays. Little index cards, torn notebook paper, notes like “add a little more sugar” with no measurement, because of course she knew what that meant.
The first few times I tried to cook for the holidays after she died, I’d pull out those recipes and the world would just…slow down.
I would see her handwriting and everything in me would seize up. I’d lose my place in the steps. I’d read the same line three or four times. I’d forget what I was supposed to be doing.
It wasn’t just “I’m sad.” It was like my brain short-circuited around her name, her loops and curves on the page. I was standing in my kitchen holding proof that she existed and that she doesn’t anymore.
And then I’d get mad at myself:
“Why can’t you just make the dressing? Why is this so hard? It’s just a recipe.”
But grief is never “just” anything.
If any of this sounds familiar, let me say this clearly:
You’re not broken. You’re grieving.
The holidays have a way of putting loss in 4K resolution. Every commercial, every family photo on social media, every tradition you used to have becomes a mirror you didn’t ask to look into.
Here are a few things I’ve had to learn the hard way:
You’re allowed to lower the bar.
Maybe this is not the year you host. Maybe it’s not the year you make everything from scratch. Maybe “celebrating” means pajamas, one favorite movie, and something simple for dinner. That still counts.You’re allowed to step away.
If your body is telling you, “This is too much,” it’s okay to go to the bathroom, sit in your car, or walk outside for a few minutes. You’re not being dramatic. You’re taking care of yourself.You’re allowed to not make the recipe.
Some years, you might feel strong enough to cook their special dish. Other years, just looking at their handwriting might be all you can handle. Both are valid ways of honoring them.Grief doesn’t follow the calendar.
Just because it’s been “a few years” doesn’t mean you should be “over it.” Time passing is not the same thing as pain disappearing.
If you’re someone who loves a person who is grieving, here’s one small thing that can make a big difference:
Instead of trying to cheer them up, try this:
“I know this season might be hard. I’m thinking about you.
If you ever want to tell me a story about your person, I’d love to hear it.”
A lot of us carry this fear that if we talk about the person we lost, we’ll “ruin the mood” or make people uncomfortable. At the same time, we’re terrified that no one will remember them.
You can be the person who says, “I want to remember them with you.”
You don’t need the perfect words. You just need to show up and not disappear when things get heavy.
As for my family? We’re still a work in progress.
But this Thanksgiving, I saw my sister. My nieces met their cousins—my son and my stepdaughter—for the first time in too long. And watching them laugh together, I thought: this is what Mom would have wanted. Not perfection. Just us, finding our way back to each other.
Recognizing the problem was half the battle. Naming it out loud—“I am not okay, and this is why”—was the first crack of light.
Losing my mother didn’t come with a guidebook for how to be a daughter, a sister, a mom, and a functioning human during the holidays. I’m still figuring it out. Some years I do better than others. Some years I opt out of more things.
Some years I surprise myself.
Here in Chapel Hill, though, I’m reminded that community can be built in small, quiet ways:
A neighbor dropping off a plate.
A friend sending a “No need to reply, just thinking of you” text.
A local business owner remembering your name when your brain is mush and your heart is sore.
So if this season feels bright and joyful for you, I’m genuinely glad. Hold onto that.
And if this season aches—if the lights feel too bright, the rooms too loud, and the empty spaces too big—I want you to know you’re not alone in that either.
Some of us are just trying to make it through December with our hearts in one piece.
If you’re reading this and you’re grieving, this is me, reaching across the page to say:
I see you.
I’m with you.
And however you’re managing the holidays this year is enough.
With love,
Elana Etten
Editor, Chapel Hill Insider