Facing the Holidays Without Your Child Is a Holy Thing

Facing the holidays with that ache in our hearts is part of the holidays for so many. Especially for those who have lost pregnancies, lost children.

When we have time to gather in tenderness, when we come together for our rituals of the season, or look up at the stars, when we pull into the dark nights, and feel our families around, whether in memory or in physical reality, there is always a pull into sorrow. Into wondering what it would be like if they were here. Feeling the empty spaces. Imagining their ages. Worrying about other loss that may come.

Love and sorrow almost always go together. And even though our culture doesn’t grasp this, we don’t need to separate them.  I see in my practice that so many people feel guilty about this, about their shadowed hearts in the time of celebration. They are worried that they will bring the mood down, that they are doing it wrong, that they should try harder.

However, it is winter. We need to  allow the dark. Even when our winters last years. We need to allow the tears that spill over when moments feel sacred. Or when the missing just becomes so strong there is no stopping the lament that needs to come forth in a good cry, in a sad song, in a long walk. The heart of winter elicits this in us. The longing, the love, and sorrow wind together so beautifully in deep purples, blues and greens. They compliment each other well.

Winter is a time of death. Plants die and go to seed, to roots. Leaves fall. The cold brings a rest from the push of life in plants and animals. It is so important for humans to honor this too, about the season. It is natural and in rhythm with nature for us to be more internal at this time, to be with the sadness that is always with us, for those we are not with anymore. We love them. We wish we could always have each other here. 

I argue that this season was never all about joy and hope. In the northern hemisphere it has always been a tenuous time, where people hoped for enough food to get through, enough fuel for warmth. And hope was needed and welcomed in community and gathering. But joy wasn’t the constant expectation or the main event. 

I love to allow the small lights that come, a memory that finds its way through. Even the sad ones have their glow. I can feel and see how beautiful they are so well when they show up in a nest of darkness. How well they shine. 

I wish you honor and grace for the dark, for the sorrow. For the shadows that come in the sweetest moments. I wish for you to know that this is just right. I wish for you loving and wise arms to hold you through it. I wish you beauty in the midst of it all. It is a holy thing to love. And to miss.

Jessica Malmberg is an LMFT in California, a mom of 2 daughters and a son who has died. To learn more about her work go to jessicamalmberg.com. You can email her at jessica@jessicamalmberg.com