It’s supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year. It’s Christmas, but my mom is dead. It’s no secret that most holiday magic exists thanks to the emotional and physical labor of parents, particularly moms. So how are we supposed to feel the holiday spirit when we are motherless? Can holiday magic and grief coexist?

I create the Christmas magic for my children, and I love it, but it also breaks my heart knowing I can’t do it anymore with my full heart. Deep down I’m still so hurt and empty.

If you scratched beneath the surface aura of twinkle lights, movie nights, peppermint cocoa, and Polish Christmas cookies, you’d see a cold, slimy room where my mind hangs out alone sometimes—a claustrophobic, soundproof panic room in my heart where I escape to mentally scream, because the regular world feels wrong somehow.

The last time I saw my mother alive was Christmas 2017. Back then I looked up at the night sky snowing and felt a sense of wonder and gratitude. When my mom was alive for Christmas, I marveled at how a blanket of snow hushed the sounds of the city and the whiteness made the night sky glow deep purple. But it’s Christmas 2024, and my mother is dead. It’s raining and gray. I rarely even go outside anymore, let alone look up at the sky.

I’m the only adult around to make my grandmother‘s cookie recipe. I’m the only one who can make the Polish coffee cakes that my mom used to bake and wrap in foil. There will be no hectic shopping trips made bearable by laughs and silliness because my mother is gone. She’s not here to watch Meet Me In St. Louis with me. She’s not here to sneak handfuls of tinsel onto the tree when no one is looking because she thinks it needs more sparkle. I don’t even have tinsel on my tree. It probably does need sparkle. But how can I add sparkle when her dying turned off the light?

It’s Christmas, but my mom is dead. The magic is gone. I can see the man behind the curtain, pulling the levers and strings. Maybe now I am the man behind the curtain. Becoming the creator and the keeper of holiday magic for my kids was exciting and fun at first. But then death came for my mother, while grief stayed behind, permanently lodging itself in my heart.

Now I can’t look at the twinkle lights for too long or tears begin to surface. It feels like a test at best, or maybe a cruel joke that people are supposed to feel big seasonal joy whilst carrying grief that can’t be set down. We are somehow meant to feel both. Simultaneously.

Recently my 15-year-old told me that I am both never happy and always stressed. I didn’t think it was possible, but when she said that, I felt my heart break more. I didn’t think I had enough intact heart left to break.

I’m not sure where I found the audacity to write a blog called To Bounce Not Break. While there are times finally, six years after losing my mom, that I feel a sense of hey, I’ve got this, I can rebuild my life and things could be okay, there are still many days where what’s left of my heart is broken bits swept into a dusty pile.

It’s easy to feel pressure from family or friends during the holidays. There are so many things we think we need to do or buy or events we simply must attend (and post smiling family pics of later on social media!) In case you don’t have anyone in your life to tell you this, I’ll tell you–none of those things matter.

You don’t have to have matching family pajamas. You can order pizza or instead of cooking a huge, fancy dinner. You don’t need to pretend for people. It’s okay to simply be where you are and do the holidays in whatever way feels authentic to you this year. Skip whatever you need to skip. Let go where you need to let go.

Tomorrow I’ll take one more step forward, even though today feels horrible. If you’re also feeling broken today, I see you. I’m right here with you. May your holidays be bearable.