S3/E29- The Holidays After Child Loss: Grief, Memory, and Survival

The holidays can be one of the hardest times for grieving parents. Between memories of what once was and the silence of what’s missing, emotions can feel overwhelming. In this heartfelt episode of Don’t Forget To Breathe, host Bruce Barker shares gentle reflections and practical coping strategies for navigating the season after child loss.

Discover ways to approach family gatherings, honor your child’s memory through meaningful traditions, and give yourself permission to rest and feel. Whether this is your first or fifteenth holiday season without your child, this conversation reminds you that grief and love can coexist; and that hope, connection, and compassion can still be found, even in November and December.

You’re not alone. Together, we can find meaning and connection in the season that reminds us to breathe, remember, and hold onto hope.

grief support, child loss, holidays, coping with grief, bereaved parents, emotional healing, hope after loss, grief podcast.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:34

Welcome to Don't Forget to Breathe, the space where grieving parents find voice, hope, and connection. I'm your host, Bruce Barker. I have more parent stories coming soon, but today we're talking about something that can feel heavy, even before it arrives. The holiday season. For most people, this is the time of year when the world seems to sparkle. Holiday music plays into the store, families plan gatherings, lights go up on homes. But for those of us living with loss, it can feel like the sparkle belongs to another universe. The holidays can magnify what's missing. They can stir up memories of laughter that used to fill the room, and now that silence of what's missing. Who is missing? You might even feel pulled between wanting to honor traditions and wanting to skip the entire month altogether. If that sounds familiar, you're not alone. In this episode, I want to talk about ways we can move through the holidays with intention, gentleness, and choice, not with pressure, not with expectations, but with permission to do what feels right for you this year, not what the world expects. Let's start with something simple. Holidays are hard when you're grieving. They're filled with shoulds. You should be cheerful, you should decorate, you should join family dinners, but grief doesn't follow a calendar. You don't need to put on a brave face or force holiday cheer to make others comfortable. Grief doesn't take time off for Thanksgiving or Christmas or Hanukkah or New Year's. It's okay if the sparkle of the season feels like too much. It's okay if the world's joy feels like a foreign language right now. The truth is the holidays can reopen wounds we thought had started to heal. Old traditions can feel like salt and a fresh cut. Even small things, a song, a smell, a certain food can send us spiraling back in time. And that's normal. That's not weakness. It's love showing up in a new form. It's the echo of a bond that never really ends. So before anything else, take a breath. Acknowledge where you are without judgment. You're doing the best you can with the weight you carry. It's okay that you don't feel like celebrating the holidays the way you once did. The honest truth is the holidays will never be like they once were. So what will they be now? One of the most powerful things we can do is let go of the shoulds. You don't have to decorate. You don't have to attend the party. You don't have to pretend. Grief doesn't obey the holiday calendar, it follows the heart's rhythm. So if you're tired, rest. If you want to skip a tradition, skip it. If you want to create a new one, do it. This year might look completely different, and that's okay. Maybe you light one candle and call that your holiday. Maybe you spend the day somewhere quiet, away from the noise, or maybe you find comfort in still showing up, but doing it differently, more gently, more slowly, more intentionally. There's no right way to grieve and no wrong way to get through the holidays. So let's choose what matters. When my daughter Kristen died, I remember the first Christmas felt like a blur. I mean, but to be honest, the first four Christmases were a blur. I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want to hear carols. I didn't want to smell anything that smelled like the holidays. I didn't like going into stores because holiday music was playing. I hated all the Christmas commercials on TV. I just wanted the world to stop. I wanted to avoid Christmas altogether. In fact, I did just that. I may have mentioned this in a previous episode, but what I did to avoid Christmas, besides not putting out a single decoration or sending out a single Christmas card or even hanging up any of those that I happened to get, what I did was I created my No Christmas, Christmas Day. So this was pre-COVID. It seemed like all the best movies came out in the theaters on Christmas Day. So what I did was to look at the first feature of the day on Christmas morning and plan out my all-day movie marathon in the theater. My holiday meals were popcorn and movie theater hot dogs. I lost myself in the world of each movie, not the reality of my life, my sadness, my grief. I stayed in that world until the last movie of the day ended, close to midnight, and poof, Christmas was over. But once I remarried, I was thrust into a new family's Christmas trees, decorating holiday music and traditions. I learned my strategy of avoiding Christmas, did nothing for my healing. It gave me no tools to cope with the holidays. It was time to start processing and facing what I could no longer avoid. Over the years, I realized that what I needed most was choice, the freedom to decide what mattered that year. Maybe it's hanging one ornament to represent your child. Maybe it's cooking their favorite meal, or maybe it's leaving that chair empty, not as a reminder of pain, but as a quiet acknowledgement of love. When you choose what matters and let go of what doesn't, you begin to reclaim a sense of peace, to reclaim your heart. You start living with your grief and not against it. Choice is powerful. It reminds us that even in grief, we still have agency. And here's my reality now. After a lot of work and making choices along the way, about five years ago, I actually chose to buy a bag of those, you know, those cinnamon-scented pine cones you find in a grocery store. Well, that was my first act of stepping into the holidays. And just last year, I not only decorated a small Christmas tree in my apartment, I also dressed as Santa for a major children's event for the airline I work for now. No one that knew me a few years ago could have seen that coming, but it happened. It was part of working through grief and embracing the healing. So here I want to ask you to do something. What's one thing you could do this season that feels meaningful, not overwhelming? I want you to write that down. That's going to be your touchstone. Let's talk about creating a ritual of connection. So rituals can be powerful anchors in grief. They give shape to the love we still hold. Many parents I've spoken with say creating a ritual for their child helps them through the season. It doesn't have to be elaborate. Maybe it's setting a place at the table, hanging an ornament, or sharing a story aloud. For some parents, that might mean lighting a candle each evening in their child's memory. For others, it might mean donating toys to a children's hospital or volunteering or writing a letter to their child and placing it under the tree. In my case, I started a small ritual. I hang a single ornament that carries Kristen's name, and I pause before I hang it. That one small act reminds me that she's still part of my story. Her love is woven into every season that comes after. Maybe your ritual will change year to year. That's okay. What matters is the intention to acknowledge the love that endures. As long as we are breathing, their story continues through us. What about navigating family expectations? I mean, let's be honest. Families can be tricky during the holidays, especially when grief is in the mix. I know, I experienced it. Some people mean well, but say the wrong thing. Others avoid the topic altogether. You might feel like you're walking on eggshells, trying not to cry or trying not to ruin the mood. But here's the thing: you're allowed to set boundaries. You can say, I'm not up for big gathering this year, or I'd love to come for a little while, but I might leave early. If an event feels too draining, you can say no. If someone invites you to something you're not ready for, you can say thank you. Maybe next time. You don't owe anyone a detailed explanation of your choices. You're protecting your energy. And that's sacred work. Self-care is not selfish, it's survival. If someone asks what they can do, be honest. Tell them you might just need someone to listen or sit quietly or say your child's name. People can't read your mind, but some truly do want to show up. And so give them a way to do that. So what does support look like? The holidays can amplify loneliness. When everyone else seems surrounded by laughter, you can feel like an outsider looking through a window. If that's you right now, please hear me. You're not alone. So reach out. Even if it's just to one person who gets it, join a support group, even just once. Or listen to voices like the ones we share here where grief is not something to hide. Sometimes the smallest act of reaching out, a text, a message, a group, can open a door to healing that you didn't know you could find. And if you're listening right now and thinking, I don't know who to reach out to, please know you can start here. This community, this podcast was built for you. My contact information follows each episode. Reach out. I am here for you. And if you're not ready to connect, that's okay too. You can still honor your child in your own quiet way. Grief doesn't require an audience, but healing often happens when we let someone witness our truth. So, what about self-care? Self-care during the holidays looks different when you're grieving. It's not a spa day or yoga classes. It's often sometimes something as simple as getting enough rest or drinking enough water, stepping outside, or allowing yourself to cry. It's saying no when your body says no. It's listening when your spirit says, not this year. If you feel moments of laughter or lightness, don't feel guilty. Joy doesn't cancel grief. Let me say that again. Joy doesn't cancel grief. It's part of the same river. You're allowed to feel both, sometimes even in the same breath. Remember, your child would want you to take care of yourself, to keep breathing, to keep living, not in spite of them, but for them. So now what? Okay, if if you're somewhere, you can pause for a moment, do so. I invite you to take a breath with me. Close your eyes if you can. Inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Let's do that again. Inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Picture your child, their face, their laughter, their presence. Now imagine that love surrounding you, warm, present, still real. That love didn't end. It lives in your heartbeat, in the stories you tell, in the way you still show up, even when it hurts. Let that be your gift this season. To remember, to breathe, to allow both sorrow and love to coexist. When you're ready, open your eyes. So as this holiday season unfolds, be gentle with yourself. And try to remember this. You don't have to chase joy. You don't have to erase your sadness. Just make space for both love and loss, memory and meaning. And in that space, maybe you'll find a quiet breath, a gentle reminder that you are still here, still loving, still healing. So if you decorate, do it with intention. If you cry, let it be a form of love. If you laugh, know that joy and grief can share the same space. There is no finish line in grief. There's no single right way to survive the holidays. There's only what feels honest, what feels true, what helps you keep breathing one day at a time. Thank you for spending some time with me. If today's episode resonated with you, I hope you'll share it with another parent who might need to hear it. And if this season feels heavy, remember you don't have to walk through it alone.