My mom died five years ago, and I still think oh no here it comes when I look at the calendar and see holidays looming. After your mom or dad dies, it can seem nearly impossible to feel the holiday magic. It’s even worse when you’re mom or dad yourself and it’s your job to create the festive spirit for your own children. How are we supposed to make the holidays merry and bright for our kids when our hearts are broken and grieving for our lost loved one? How will we survive the holidays?

Let go of expectations.

I’ve survived five years of grief but still don’t have much bandwidth or capacity for holiday cheer.

I’ve dramatically and somewhat ruthlessly donated and decreased my inventory of holiday, accessories, decor, and supplies. I kept only the things I truly love and have enough energy to unpack and repack every year. My house is certainly not Instagram worthy, but for now, in this season of life and grief, it is enough.

I used to send holiday cards to family, friends, and loved ones before my mom died, but ever since she passed away I just can’t. And yes, I definitely feel guilty when cards arrive in my mailbox and I know that I’m not going to return the favor. Life is different now without my mom in it. Certain things that used to bring joy now just feel empty, and maybe I’m okay with leaving them behind.

My kids don’t get new, matching holiday pajamas every year. (And we have no family photographs of us in carefully curated outfits taken months in advance, predestined for an adorably impressive Christmas card! This isn’t to disparage those who do find joy here. I just can’t or don’t, and it’s time I stop comparing myself to others and feeling down about it.)

It is okay to let go of expectations, and that includes what you subconsciously expect from yourself. It’s okay to let go of things you have done in the past. You don’t have to keep doing them. Even if your sister thinks it’s weird or rude. Even if your mother-in-law’s feathers get ruffled because you bought pre-made sugar cookies at the store and let your children frost them haphazardly rather than baking your usual family recipe and intricately decorating them by hand the way you did before.

It’s no longer the Before Times. This is the after life—your life with grief, your life without your mom or dad. It’s going to be fine if this year the holiday season looks different. Your world is different, and you don’t need to cater to the wishes of others if you can’t manage it or just plain don’t want to.

Holidays (ideally) make us a little happier, and so try to hold onto the traditions that you love and that are serving you. Let the rest go.

Prioritize. Figure out what matters.

Maybe this year you pick three things to do for the holiday season. Or maybe you only pick one–one important thing that brings you even a little bit of happiness. Do that one thing with all your might. Fan that tiny flame. (Just remember to rest or take a step back if even a good thing feels like too much or isn’t so good anymore.)

What I’ve been able to manage for Christmas since my mom died is putting up the tree with my kids and baking one specific type of cookie. Anything else I am able to do for the holidays is simply gravy—an extra, a fun bonus, a nice little surprise—nothing I ever expected or pressured myself to do.

After my mom died, I invested in a good quality, artificial Christmas tree. At first this purchase challenged the very essence of my DNA as someone from a ‘real Christmas tree only’ type of family.

While I miss the gorgeous, natural scent of a real tree, the unique shapes and sizes, and what used to be the exciting experience of selecting just the right one from the tree lot or the U-cut farm—I don’t miss lugging the giant thing in and out of my house. I don’t miss the stressful task of regularly watering a tree lest its early demise be my fault. I don’t miss the needles falling everywhere, getting lodged into my socks no matter how much I vacuum (which, let’s be honest, isn’t that often). I don’t miss that year the tree came with hundreds of hidden spider babies who emerged only when they were warm inside my house.

What I can handle is a fairly lightweight bag, containing one simple, decent enough tree, easily assembled by popping three sections together. No mess, no fuss, and no spiders.

I still bake the Polish Christmas cookies. My mother always made when I was a kid. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, maybe even my great grandmother’s, although I’ll never know because my mom isn’t here anymore to ask.

This recipe is a ton of work, and yet I do it because it’s the one remaining happy holiday memory where I feel powerfully connected to my mom. If everything else fell away except for a plate of those cookies and a warm drink to go with them, I would still know it’s Christmas.

Skip whatever you need to skip.

Every year my mom set up her nativity set under our Christmas tree, and I have that set now in my house. Or, in my cellar, to be precise.

My mom’s father and brother built the wooden stable of the nativity for her, complete with a thatched roof made with real hay. She bought the ceramic figurines in the late 1960s—Joseph, Mary, the tiny baby Jesus, three wise men and their camel, an angel, several shepherds, a drummer boy, a wooden flute playing guy, and at least a dozen animals, including sheep, a donkey, a herding dog, and a handful of goats. This set is more than vintage at this point in time. Each year (in January after the Epiphany) my mom wrapped them all so carefully in bubble wrap to await the next Christmas season.

My mom’s nativity is a holiday memory that existed throughout my entire childhood. And yet, for a reason I have yet to determine, it is not a happy one. My mom died in August, and as the Christmas season loomed only four months after she died, I knew that nativity set wasn’t leaving the box.

It’s been five years now, and I just can’t do it. Maybe because it was hers, as if since she’s not here to set it up, it simply cannot be set up. (I did try once, a few years back—my cat climbed into the stable, knocked several figurines over, and curled up for a nap. It was all wrong.)

You have permission to skip whatever you need to skip when grieving the death of your parent. Maybe next year, I tell myself every year after a long exhale. And that’s okay.

Choose your people wisely.

It’s just us here, friend. We can quietly admit to one another that some people are stressful to be around, even if we care about them or love them.

If you are feeling holiday grief, you might consider limiting who you visit or if you simply can’t avoid certain gatherings, plan in advance to stay for a shorter time, however long you can handle and still leave feeling okay.

Christmas in 2018 was the worst for me, happening just a few months after my mom died, and so in 2019 my best friend and I decided to bring our little families together for a new tradition. We were both full-time working moms who frankly had enough of the pressure and stress of the holiday season.

We wanted to enjoy ourselves for once. We wanted a new tradition that didn’t remind us of the past. Just hanging with friends on Christmas—no judgment, no ridiculous expectations or Pinterest-worthy standards, less work, self serve food—a simple Christmas, happy kids, and no exhausted, burned out moms.

Thus the tradition of Christmas Day Tacos was born—low key tacos and a movie (this year we’re watching ‘Elf’ again because hearing the kids cackle and laugh is so worth it.)

My friend typed up a list of simple, easy ingredients and food we’d each provide and shared it with me via Google Docs.

I don’t even have to think. This year in 2023 I pulled up that same google doc from 2019 on my phone and spent no more than 20 minutes in the store picking up my contributions. It’s beyond easy, and our kids genuinely look forward to this day.

All this to say choose your people wisely. Choose joy. Choose ease. Choose what feels right to you in this difficult season of life.

Let yourself cry. No shoulds allowed.

Whether it’s been six months or six years since your mom or dad died, whether their passing was sudden or expected, grief has carved out a space in your heart that will always be there.

Life isn’t going to be the same as it once was. Leave yourself space to cry when you need it, or simply space to sit and breathe. No ‘shoulding’ on yourself— no ‘I should be happy‘ or ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me–I should be having fun‘. You dear friend, get a free pass. You get to feel whatever pops up in the moment and that’s okay.

Make new traditions.

My mom‘s death was easily the hardest thing I have ever experienced, and a little over five years later I am still experiencing it. Such a tremendous loss is forever.

Grief reminds me of how people describe seeing the stars— that the light we see in the sky can be about four years to billions of years old because the stars are so far away and the light has been traveling for years. Even if a star dies, it still takes thousands of light years to reach our eyes, so we still see the light long after the star is gone.

In a similar way, my love for my mom remains, partly it remains as grief, which is still traveling through me years later, and I know both the grief and the love will continue to travel with me and ahead of me for the rest of my life.

I want to remember her and stay with her, and not take a single step forward without her. And yet I must go forward, because I also feel a little push from her behind me, sending me out into the world, into my future. Go on…live! My mother is the burned out but still glowing star, and I suppose I am the light, with a long way to travel ahead.

I know that even regular days can be difficult, which means getting through holidays or celebrations can seem daunting at best. But I think that you, too, are a light in the sky, dear grieving friend, with a long way to go and plenty of space to shine.

What new traditions might you try this year? Think of something your mom or dad would love. Do that.

Maybe you leave a place for them at the table.

Maybe now before your holiday meal—whether that is Chinese takeout, boxed macaroni and cheese, or a taco buffet with friends in yoga pants—you raise a toast to your lost loved one and remember them out loud just for a moment.

Maybe this year you buy or make a special new ornament for your tree, and you continue this tradition every year as you build your new After Life.

Maybe you’re not feeling up to leaving the house just yet and your new tradition is driving by yourself or with your kids or friends or loved ones to look at the Christmas lights in your neighborhood.

We won’t feel happy every day always in this new life without the one we lost, but just maybe in this dark season we’ll forget the unimportant stuff and instead notice the holiday lights in shop windows, twinkling neighborhood displays, or one lonely star in the sky, and we’ll find a little joy.