What hurts most about the holidays
is not the empty chairs—
it’s the living ones
we no longer sit beside.
We grieve people who still breathe,
still walk the same earth,
still exist just close enough
to remember,
yet far enough to ache.
We mourn the sound of a full house
at our grandparents’ place,
where laughter climbed the walls
and love felt permanent,
where time hadn’t yet taught us
how easily together can become apart.
We grieve the warmth we once wore
without knowing it was fragile.
The way appreciation flowed freely,
before pride, pain, and distance
quietly packed their bags
and stayed.
Growing older teaches a colder truth—
that childhood was not a promise,
but a moment.
A beautifully staged scene
that only came alive
on borrowed days called holidays.
We didn’t see the unraveling then.
We didn’t know the magic was scheduled,
that togetherness had an expiration date.
We believed it was forever
because no one told us otherwise.
Now I sit here,
watching my three beautiful children
overflow with wonder,
their eyes lit with belief,
their hearts full of magic.
And mine—
mine is running on empty.
I wear joy like armor.
I build memories with trembling hands.
I smile through the cracks
because they deserve a world
that still feels whole.
My heart cries quietly,
but I let my laughter be loud.
What carries me through
is not the holiday itself,
but the sound of innocent joy—
my children,
and all the children
who still believe
this season is pure magic.
And maybe that belief alone
is enough
to keep it alive
just a little longer.
