This time of year, it seems like every commercial, every song, and every social post is telling us the same thing: the holidays are about togetherness. But for those of us living with grief, that message can land differently because when someone you love is missing, “togetherness” can feel more like a reminder of what — or who — isn’t here. So this week, we’re going to name how we can keep our grief close and cared for during the holiday festivities.
The holidays have a way of magnifying absence. An empty chair at the table. A stocking that doesn’t need to be hung. A conversation that will never happen again.
Even if your grief isn’t about death — maybe it’s estrangement, divorce, distance, or a shift in your sense of belonging — the ache is real. You might still hear laughter, still smell cinnamon or pine, still watch the lights twinkle — but beneath it all, there’s that tug of memory reminding you that this season used to look different.
So what do we do with that? How do we honor the empty spaces without letting them swallow the whole season?
In restorative grief, we talk about making room — not for what was, but for what is. That’s different from “moving on.” It’s learning how to live with the absence in a way that feels honest and gentle.
That might mean saying no to a tradition that doesn’t feel good this year. It might mean creating a new one that honors what’s changed. Maybe you light a candle at the dinner table, or share a story about the person you miss. Maybe you choose stillness over celebration.
Or maybe you show up, tears and all, because you know that grief and joy can sit side by side — and you’re strong enough to hold both. The truth is, there’s no single right way to “do” the holidays in grief. But there is a restorative way — one that centers awareness, choice, and compassion.
So this year, I want to invite you to try a simple, grounding practice.
Here’s one small action to take:
Before you step into a holiday gathering — or even before you start decorating, cooking, or planning — pause for one intentional breath.
Place your hand over your heart, and name what you’re bringing into the room. Maybe it’s sadness. Maybe it’s gratitude. Maybe it’s confusion, or relief, or all of the above. Whatever it is, acknowledge it. Give yourself permission to show up as you are, not as you think you should be. And if you need to step away during the day: for a breath, a cry, or a moment of silence…then do so, and let that be your ritual of restoration.
Honoring our grief at the holidays can feel touchy; some of those in your presence may be struggling to acknowledge grief, wanting “just one day” to pretend all is fine. Others may need the acknowledgement to feel whole and ready to celebrate those who’ve gathered. Finding a way to practice consent with all who are present is a beautiful offering of healing in your grief work, too.
You don’t need to send out warning messages ahead of time, and certainly, you don’t need to apologize for what you’re feeling. But garnering consent of those present might include asking everyone to share what they’re thinking about – not just what they’re grateful for. If speaking aloud is uncomfortable, writing it down and passing a basket around can be an anonymous way for everyone to be heard and cared for without the spotlight on them.
Maybe you do have an empty chair at the table, as a way of acknowledging those who are unable to be present. But honoring the empty chair doesn’t mean staring at it all night. It means recognizing its presence and remembering why it matters. Because grief, at its core, is evidence of love. That love doesn’t disappear. It changes shape. It becomes part of how you move through the world — more tender, more aware, more attuned to what truly matters.
So maybe this season, instead of trying to make everything perfect, you can let it be true. Imperfect, tender, unfinished…but real. That’s the kind of togetherness restorative grief invites: the kind where honesty and love take the lead. Because even with empty chairs, our hearts can still be full — full of memory, full of love, full of the quiet courage it takes to keep going.
Thank you for listening to episode 218 of Restorative Grief. If you’re finding this holiday season complicated, please remember you’re not alone. The ache you feel is sacred space — proof that love left a mark worth honoring. If this conversation resonated, I’d love for you to subscribe, leave a review, or consider becoming a Patron. Supporting the show helps this work continue and unlocks access to bonus episodes and reflective workbooks to deepen your practice. And as always, before we go, please remember: The only solution for grief is to do the work of grieving. Thank you for listening. I’ll see you next week.
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