Christmas was my absolute favourite time of the year; ever since I was a child, even more than my birthday. Christmas for me signified fellowship. It was gathering at church on Christmas morning to sing Christmas carols and hear the story of the very first Christmas. It was when we all got together for Christmas dinners that were filled with joy and laughter, good food and presents, and tradition mixed with excitement and anticipation for a new year ahead.

As a grown up, I would wait eagerly for December to put up my Christmas tree. I’d start playing my Christmas playlist and watching all my favourite Christmas shows. I was in my element with one of my love languages (gifts), and would make Christmas cards, do holiday baking, and search for the perfect gifts for everyone. And when I became a mum, it was my mission to spread my love for Christmas to my kids (along with my love for the Grinch, as ironic as that is)!

Two years ago, we had the best Christmas I will ever have. After a challenging year and pregnancy, my precious Dorian had arrived strong and healthy, just two weeks prior. All my faith and prayers were answered with him being discharged from NICU within a week, which meant that the five of us were all home together for Christmas. It was a Christmas of immense peace and joy, and overflowing hope for the future; a Christmas of miracles and wonder – the Christmas I had grown up believing in.

But Christmas has since lost its joy. Now, I delay putting up my Christmas tree. Certain Christmas songs make me cry, and I avoid most of the Christmas shows I used to love. I don’t make Christmas cards, holiday baking feels more like a chore, and my Christmas shopping is done in a rush because I’d been trying to hide from December and suddenly realised that if I didn’t get into gear, my boys would have no Christmas presents.

When you lose someone you love, Christmas is one of those triggers that reminds you of just how much you’ve lost. And I think for us, it’s compounded by the fact that Dorian’s birthday was only two weeks prior, so we have to struggle with reconciling the only Christmas that we got to spend with him, with the Christmases we now have with a family that’s incomplete. Just like the rest of our grief journey, my husband and I have no choice but to face our triggers and keep going, because we have two other boys that deserve to experience a “normal” childhood, and a Christmas filled with wonder.

Last year – the first Christmas without Dorian – was hard, but this year might potentially be harder. People make allowances for all the “first” milestones, but most of them (unintentionally) start to forget as time goes on. It’s not that they don’t care or they’re deliberately trying to be insensitive, but everyone else moves on. When grief doesn’t affect them directly, it’s easier to heal and overcome triggers. They don’t realise that for us, the primary grievers, it won’t matter how many years have passed; there is no “off” switch for grief.

But as I’ve been bracing myself for Christmas events and family gatherings this year, I’ve noticed that for the first time, there seem to be a lot more messages around comfort and being kind to yourself this holiday season. And I’ve realised that there are a lot of people who also aren’t feeling the joy this Christmas, whether it’s because they’re also carrying grief, or because they’re struggling with other issues.And while this makes me feel less alone, it also makes me sad that this is the state of the world we now live in.

Then this morning, as I was doing my daily devotion and journalling, it came to me. The very first Christmas was not a grand celebration nor was it a peaceful time either. Everyone was busy and stressed, travelling far and wide to fill out a census just to please an earthly king. But the promised King of Kings had a humble beginning, born amidst the hustle and bustle, laid to rest in a manger, with nobody to celebrate the moment of His birth but the angels in heaven.

And I realised something that often gets overlooked in the story of Christmas. Christmas isn’t just a reminder that Jesus was born. Christmas is a reminder that God, Emmanuel, is always with us, and meets us exactly where we are. Provision: a barn when there were no rooms at the inns. Comfort: as Mary laboured without help. Peace: a humble birth in all the commotion. Celebration: angels singing while everyone else was asleep and unaware. Hope: because God not only remembers His words and His promises, but He fulfils them, even if it takes generations to come to pass.

This Christmas, and every Christmas after, is still going to be rough for me. But the reminder above is what I’m choosing to carry with me to give me the strength I need to get through. Because I don’t need to be perfect or to have it all together at Christmas. I don’t need to let circumstances and the world place unfair or unrealistic expectations on me just because “it’s Christmas”. Because God doesn’t care; He’ll meet me where I am, whether it’s crying into my pillow at night, or holding it all in during Christmas dinner.

So as we head into Christmas Day, I just want to leave you with this. This season is supposed to be filled with peace, joy, and hope, but I know the reality is that for many of us, this may not be the case. If this is you, then I want you to know that is okay, and there is nothing wrong with you if all you want to do is stay home and avoid all the Christmas overload. Sometimes that is exactly what you need to do to be kind to yourself this season. Don’t let anyone pressure or guilt you into doing anything that will only bring you pain or anxiety.

But regardless of how this year has looked for you or how you choose to celebrate this holiday season (or whether you even choose to celebrate!), my thoughts and prayers will be with you all. I wish you all peace, joy, and hope, and comfort for those who need it. And above all, I pray that you all get to experience the light and beauty of Christmas in the way that you need it most. Merry Christmas everyone, from my heart to yours ❤️