Today is December 1st, the beginning of a season the world calls magical. A month wrapped in twinkling lights, cozy nights, the smell of pine, and the anticipation of Christmas morning. Everywhere we look, the world is preparing for joy.
But for some of us… December holds something else too.
For our family, December marks the month we lost our daughter. The month we were anticipating her due date. The month we had dreamed of bringing home our tiny baby girl bundling her in soft Christmas pajamas, taking sweet photos under the tree, and soaking in the kind of magic only a newborn at Christmastime brings. December was supposed to look like wonder, warmth, and new life.
Instead, it became the month our world broke.
December is the month we were told our daughter’s heart had stopped beating. The month we had to leave the hospital with empty arms. The month we drove home in silence, trying to piece together how we would explain to our children that their baby sister was in heaven. The month we learned what it means to keep breathing when your whole heart feels shattered.
And now, three years later, December still carries a different weight.
Time hasn’t made the world any smaller or quieter. Time hasn’t erased the ache or made us magically stronger. What time has done is teach us how to live inside a life we never asked for — how to hold joy and sorrow in the same hands, the same breath, the same season.
And maybe that’s the part of this month I want to speak to the most.
Because if you’re entering this holiday season with grief — whether it’s fresh or hidden, loud or quiet — I want you to know this:
You are not the only one feeling out of step with the world around you.
You’re not the only one who feels the sting of “what should’ve been.”
You’re not the only one who looks at the lights and feels both comfort and ache.
You’re not the only one trying to celebrate while carrying a wound the world can’t see.
Grief does not take a break for Christmas.
Grief doesn’t pause for the holidays.
Grief doesn’t disappear just because the calendar turns to December.
But neither does hope.
And in the quiet moments — the ones where the world slows just enough for us to feel that ache rise again — hope has a way of meeting us gently. Not by erasing the pain, but by reminding us that we’re not walking through it alone.
So if this season feels heavy for you too, I pray you feel seen here. I pray you feel permission to honor your grief, to rest when your heart needs rest, to celebrate in ways that feel gentle, and to hold onto the truth that God is near to the brokenhearted — especially in the months that break us all over again.
This December, we miss our daughter with every part of us.
We remember her.
We honor her.
We speak her name.
And we carry her with us into another year.
And if you’re grieving someone you love… we’re carrying your heart with us too.
Add comment
Comments