NAVIGATING THE HOLIDAYS: WHAT WORKED FOR ME
By Christine Nguyen
‘Tis the season to be jolly, but what if I’m not? How do I drink and be merry when it feels like there’s a gaping hole in my chest? What if the only birds I want from the “12 Days of Christmas” are flipping the two on my hands in rebellious despair?
These were some of the questions I asked myself the first two holiday seasons without my dad, Steve. He died of cancer at the age of 64 in August 2022. Thanksgiving and Christmas have obviously been different since then and will be again this year having just lost my father-in-law, Brian, to a heart attack three months ago. Some days I wish the Universe would take back my “Loss Punch Card”, but c’est la vie. Every holiday season will continue to be different going forward and learning to accept instead of resisting this truth has given me back so much more energy. And many of us know energy is at a premium in grief.
The captain of a ship doesn’t try to control the seas, nor does a pilot in the sky. They equip themselves with tools, perhaps a co-pilot and crew, in order to navigate through to the best of their abilities. So that’s exactly what my family and I have done together the past two years; we’ve navigated this ocean of grief by adapting, compromising and simplifying.
My husband, Hunter, and I continued to host Thanksgiving at our home, but with a simplified menu; select favorites from the classic American spread and a few Vietnamese dishes. Same portion sizes though, because my mom had not (still hasn’t) adjusted to cooking for a smaller group. My father-in-law was the turkey carver and that role was dutifully picked up by Hunter, who has not missed a beat. We still set the table for five as a simple and meaningful way to say, “We miss you and there will always be a seat for you here.”
We kept the traditions that didn’t feel too tender to hold and paused others. I say “paused” because we wanted the opportunity to revisit them later. Spoiler alert: we have! My parents typically hosted Christmas Eve dinner at their home and that has morphed into a family restaurant outing. Christmas Day brunch at our house continued with a simplified menu and mostly catered food. The first year everyone agreed to skip gift giving and decorating Christmas trees but the following year we thought ready to bring those traditions back. My parents used to go to the “Holiday Pops: Songs of the Season” orchestra concert at George Mason University, but paused after my dad got sick. Once I noticed the mention of it brought a twinkle to my mom’s eye, instead of a twinge of sadness, I bought us tickets to go again. We also added to the mix a new mother-daughter experience and took a holiday sweets baking class together.
On days when any and all traditions just felt like too much, when it was too merry and bright, I simplified by stepping away. I created boundaries, not to keep others out, but to tend to the embers I had left within me. I went on quiet hikes, solo or with my dogs. I traded blue light from electronics for more time in natural light. I realized the dopamine hit of social media scrolling was not the nourishing support I needed and took a break. I channeled a lot of my bubbling holiday emotions into creating art. The first year I was very resentful of everyone getting to celebrate while I was suffering. So I tapped into collage art, watercolor paints, and journaling to release the colors of my emotions.
The commercial side of the holiday season pushes buying, spending, gift giving, and indulging. But in grief I’ve discovered that oftentimes less is more. It’s slowing down and getting curious about what actually feels nourishing now, in this season. For me, it’s giving myself permission to do less. To just be and observe. To dare to slow down while everyone pushes for more, bigger, and fanfare. To maybe deck the halls with fewer boughs of holly this year and know that’s plenty good enough.