As a child, Christmas is the season of joy and laughter. It brings light into the darkness of winter—a time of magic and togetherness. But after experiencing pregnancy or infant loss, the holidays transform into something far more complex.
Grief seeps into every corner of the season, touching even the traditions that once brought so much happiness. Christmas, which used to be a beacon of cheer, now feels heavy with dread. Each year is a reminder—another year further from the last time I held my daughter, another year of memories I don’t get to make with her.
There are moments when I want to pull the covers over my head, to let the weight of grief swallow me whole. But I don’t have that option. My son is alive, and he deserves the magic of Christmas. So, I dig deep, mustering all the energy I can to provide him with the holiday experience he deserves.
It’s a strange, bittersweet existence—living between two worlds. On one hand, I find joy in watching my son’s face light up as he opens his presents, his laughter filling the room as he plays with his new toys. On the other hand, there’s an ache, a deep longing for what’s missing: my daughter. She would be two now, and I can’t help but imagine the wonder in her eyes as her tiny fingers tear into wrapping paper, the sound of her giggles as she crawls around exploring her gifts.
Yet, that is not my reality. Instead, I’m left with the ghost of Christmas past, struggling to know how to incorporate my daughter into the holidays. How do I honor her memory in a way that keeps her present, without letting her fade into the background of my life?
To most people, my daughter has become non-existent. That reality hit me hard when my uncle decided to announce, on Christmas Day, that my cousin is having a baby. The timing felt so tone-deaf, so insensitive. I was already holding my grief close, and his words cut deeply. I responded, “She’s pregnant—that doesn’t guarantee she will have a baby.” He paused, then said, “True, but we’ll pray for the best.” I replied, “I did too. I hope her outcome is better than mine.” And that was it. No acknowledgment. No empathy. Just silence.
I don’t regret my words. They came from a place of truth—one that many might not understand unless they’ve walked this path. For me, his announcement wasn’t just about another pregnancy; it was a reminder of everything I’ve lost, of the fragility of life, and the unfairness of it all. I wanted my daughter to be acknowledged, not brushed aside as though her absence no longer mattered.
Grief doesn’t disappear with time—it transforms, becomes a quieter companion, but it never truly leaves. And during the holidays, it often roars back to life, demanding to be felt, to be heard. It’s a struggle to balance the heaviness of loss with the joy I want to give my son.
This year, I’m still figuring out how to honor my daughter in a way that feels meaningful. All I could manage this Christmas was to put out a simple offering of cookies for her. As I set them down, I couldn’t help but wish I could watch her take a bite, to see her little face light up at the sweetness. I also lit a candle for her. To most, she may feel like a distant memory, but to me, she is always present.
My daughter’s memory will always be part of my story, and I’ll continue to find ways to keep her light shining, even in the darkness of winter.
If you’re reading this and feeling something similar, know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to grieve during the holidays, to feel the mix of joy and sadness, to acknowledge your losses even when others don’t. It’s okay to set boundaries, to honor your feelings, and to find small ways to include your loved ones who are no longer here.
Aloha, Mamaste.