Carrying silent grief through a season of joy
Photo by benjamin lehman on Unsplash
“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!”
With a broken voice my friend continued, “I think the greatest casualty of my divorce was losing my love of Christmas.”
As a gray divorcee myself, I know there are many losses, and casualty is a strong word. Surprised, I asked her, “The biggest?” She explained:
“ Before I met my ex, I freakin’ LOVED Christmas. It was my happy time. Every year, spirit, spirit, spirit. But as the children arrived and the years wore on in my marriage, things got worse. I was never able to participate. He did everything to get the kids hyped up while I was working away in the kitchen or doing whatever duty needed to make his vision of a perfect Christmas unfold. I remember yelling from the kitchen, ‘Wait for Mommy. Mommy wants to see.’ Then I’d run into the living room, and it would all be over. Or worse, he’d be screaming for me to get the kids to behave after he encouraged the chaos. Eventually, I dreaded Christmas. It was all my responsibility, and there didn’t seem to be a point anymore.”
I really didn’t expect this response. All I’d asked was if she could share what Christmas was like after her 25-year marriage ended. To this day, she feels like a part of her soul died.
Her raw emotion lingered with me long after the conversation ended.
It made me think of other friends who had been through gray divorces and prompted me to ask if they’d be willing to share their stories. What emerged wasn’t just about divorce—it was about how Christmas, a season of joy and connection, shines a giant spotlight on our deepest losses.
Another woman—a previous family member, but I still can’t bring myself to call her “ex” anything—described her first Christmas after divorce:
“It was incredibly hard. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness, like there was a void I couldn’t fill. All the traditions and moments that used to feel joyful suddenly felt empty. I remember sitting there, missing the family life I had envisioned and struggling to find any happiness in the season. It was one of the loneliest times I’ve ever experienced.”
And yet another friend, still hesitant to “burden” others with her pain even decades later, prefaced her story by saying, “I hope this doesn’t sound too negative.” But her story spoke volumes about resilience in the face of heartbreak:
“Christmas after my divorce was awful. The joy of Christmas morning was replaced with anxiety—anxiety that there wasn’t a ‘real’ family, anxiety that I wasn’t enough, anxiety that things would never feel right. Transitioning from one type of family to another, all while trying to wear a facade that screams ‘everything is fine,’ is not only exhausting but heartbreaking. I’d look for small moments where I could cry with no one watching. There wasn’t time to grieve because stockings had to be hung, cookies had to be decorated, and lights hung. And it was all my responsibility.
She remembered specifically that she “asked my soon-to-be-ex if he would hang the outdoor Christmas lights. My two-year-old begged and begged each time we left the house, and I couldn’t stand one more disappointment for her. He failed to show up day after day. Finally, a neighbor mom and I hung the lights late at night, struggling with a staple gun in 20-degree weather. I cried the entire time, and almost 30 years later, I can still taste that anger… The holidays became a spotlight that highlighted every part of my loss.”
These words from broken women struck a chord with me, not just because of their honesty, but because they articulated so well something so many of us feel after loss: the longing for a version of life we once held dear — even when we realize it wasn’t real.
It’s not just about the absence of a person or a marriage; it’s about the absence of a dream—the family life we imagined and worked so hard to create.
As for me, my first Christmas after my 30-year marriage ended wasn’t the easiest. But in hindsight, I realize I was still in shock. Numb. I went through the motions on autopilot, letting my almost-grown children make most of the holiday decisions. I smiled and participated, but inside, I was broken in a million ways.
A marriage is so much more than a piece of paper. Somehow, over the years, two lives intertwine in ways that can’t be neatly undone. It’s not just about shared finances or traditions. It’s about the entangling of souls, the building of a world together—one that, when dismantled, leaves us untangling threads of loss, guilt, and identity. And the holidays—with their relentlessly wonderful focus on joy, family, and togetherness—can make that loss seemingly unbearable.
Yet, all of us—friends, family members, and myself—have moved on in many ways. We have careers. Some have remarried; others date. We all have a few close friends we cherish and children we adore. We’ve even made new holiday traditions that bring us joy. And yet, these memories of Christmases past still linger, tugging at our hearts in ways we don’t always understand.
Perhaps that’s why I’m writing this: to remind myself, and anyone who reads it, to see the people behind the holiday hustle. Notice them. Care for them.
There is a group that is rarely seen or noticed — they are the widows of the living — carrying grief that doesn’t always have a name.
https://brendakarl.substack.com
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