Grief, gratitude, and learning how to belong in borrowed spaces
The Holidays Can Be Quietly Hard
The holidays have been complicated for me for a long time now.
Not loud-complicated. Not dramatic.
Just… quietly hard.
The kind of hard that doesn’t show up in obvious ways. The kind you can carry politely. The kind that doesn’t necessarily ruin the day, but sits with you like a low hum you can’t quite turn off.
I lost my mom eight years ago.
I lost my grandparents seven years ago.
And with them, I lost the center of my family.
My mom was the glue. The organizer. The emotional anchor. Holidays weren’t just dates on a calendar – they were familiar routines, loud kitchens, stories that had been told a hundred times, and the comfort of knowing exactly where you belonged.
When she died, that structure disappeared too. And with it went a kind of ease I didn’t realize I’d miss so much.
For me, this is what the holidays after loss have looked like—quiet, complicated, and deeply human.
What Happens After the Center Is Gone
After my mom died, things shifted – slowly at first, and then all at once.
This is one of the quiet realities of the holidays after loss—learning how to exist without the structure that once held everything together.
The rest of my family doesn’t really speak to me anymore. That’s not something I say with anger or defensiveness. It’s simply the truth. Addiction leaves marks that don’t always disappear just because recovery happens. Some relationships don’t rebuild. Some doors stay closed.
So what I have now – what I truly have – are my boys.
They are my family. Fully. Completely.
And then there’s this unexpected piece of my life: my ex’s family.
For the last four or five Christmases, we’ve spent the holidays with them. They’ve welcomed my kids without hesitation, without conditions. They treat them like their own. Year after year.
I live with my ex now – something I never would’ve predicted decades ago. Life unraveled in ways I didn’t plan for, and when things were falling apart, he gave me a place to land. We’re roommates. Friends. We’ve built a relationship based on history, respect, and shared care.
I am deeply grateful for that.
And.
Gratitude doesn’t erase grief.
Being Welcome, But Not Rooted
Going to someone else’s house for the holidays – even when you’re genuinely welcome – can feel strange in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
You step into someone else’s traditions.
Someone else’s rhythms.
Someone else’s memories.
You’re included. You’re cared for. And still, there’s that quiet awareness: This isn’t your family home.
No one has ever made me feel out of place. Let me be clear about that. They are kind. Thoughtful. Gentle. They do everything right.
The discomfort doesn’t come from them.
It comes from grief.
It comes from missing the life you once had. From losing the person who anchored everything. From realizing the holidays you knew don’t exist anymore – not because anything is wrong, but because time and loss changed the landscape.
There’s also this subtle emotional effort that comes with being a guest – even a welcome one. The internal reminder to be polite. To be appreciative. To not take up too much space.
That voice gets louder during the holidays.
How Mental Health Complicates Grief during Holidays After Loss
Living with mental illness adds another layer to all of this.
When you’ve spent years people-pleasing, over-adapting, or scanning for safety, grief doesn’t just hurt – it destabilizes your sense of place in the world.
You become hyper-aware.
You manage your presence.
You worry about being a burden.
Your nervous system doesn’t just grieve what’s gone – it braces for rejection that may never come.
I’ve had to remind myself more than once that feeling unsettled doesn’t mean I’m unwelcome. That love doesn’t always feel comfortable when you’re used to bracing. That belonging doesn’t have to look the same to be real.
Sometimes love is quieter than you expect.
Sometimes safety doesn’t announce itself.
Letting Two Truths Exist at the Same Time
One of the most important things I’m learning is that I don’t have to choose between gratitude and grief.
I can be deeply thankful for the family that has welcomed me and my boys.
And I can miss my family – my mom, my grandparents, the way holidays used to feel – with my whole chest.
Those truths don’t cancel each other out.
I don’t need to minimize my grief to prove I’m healing.
I don’t need to “move on” to deserve the peace I have now.
I don’t need to pretend the holidays don’t ache just because they’re gentler than they used to be.
Peace and pain can coexist.
Gratitude and longing can sit side by side.
What This Season Is Teaching Me
This version of the holidays isn’t wrong. It’s just different.
Different takes time to settle into.
Different asks you to grieve what was while learning how to live with what is.
I don’t know if the ache ever fully goes away. Maybe it doesn’t have to. Maybe it softens. Maybe it becomes part of the landscape – a reminder of who mattered, and still matters.
What I do know is this: building a life after loss isn’t about replacing what’s gone. It’s about allowing new forms of love to exist alongside the old.
And sometimes that looks like standing in someone else’s living room, holding gratitude in one hand and grief in the other – and letting both be there.
That’s not weakness.
That’s humanity.
This reflection is part of a larger story I’m telling here, starting with This Is Where I’m Starting.
I talk more about grief, belonging, and rebuilding after loss on my podcast, From Mess to Progress.