Christmas Without You

Christmas arrives every year whether my heart is ready or not.

The tree is up. The lights glow softly in the corner of the room. From the outside, everything looks as it should. Christmas, however, has never been the same since I lost my firstborn.

I am now in my eleventh year of losing my child. Eleven Christmases without you coming home. Eleven years of carrying a grief that never truly leaves, only changes shape. Your name is rarely spoken out loud now, yet you live in my thoughts every minute of every day. My heart still aches - quietly, constantly.

As a mum to other children, I am expected to make this time special. I do. Every ounce of energy I have is gathered and poured into preparing the house, buying the gifts, cooking the meals, creating moments of warmth and safety for them. I wait for them to come home so I can hug them tightly, hold them just a little longer than necessary.

Your name remains unspoken.

There is an unspoken rule that hovers over Christmas after child loss: keep things normal. Life must be performed as if it hasn’t been shattered. Smiles are expected. Attendance is required. Participation is assumed. Christmas parties are attended, though rarely for long. Leaving early becomes a quiet habit, especially when conversations turn to recently bereaved parents, lengthy discussions about belongings, and plans for the future. A polite excuse is offered, followed by a familiar walk home carrying far more than anyone can see.

Those moments return me to that fateful night - 19th August - the night everything changed.

The night you were lost.

I am trying to build a life again in a new town. Clubs are joined. Plans are made. Sociability is practised. This is what moving forward is meant to look like. The truth is less polished.

Solitude feels safer. Busyness feels necessary. Working constantly keeps grief at bay, or at least convinces me it does.

It is 2:20 in the morning. The house is quiet. The Christmas lights hum softly. Memories of you, Zachary, fill the stillness. Sleep feels impossible as Christmas morning edges closer.

The hope is simple: to hold myself together when the day arrives, to avoid becoming a blubbering wreck before the presents are opened, to survive the morning before the world wakes.

Child loss does not pause for Christmas. It does not soften beneath decorations, carols, or carefully curated joy. It sits beside us at the table. It stands with us as the tree is decorated. It follows us into the quiet rooms when everyone else is asleep.

For anyone reading this who feels the same - for anyone finding Christmas more painful than comforting - please know this truth. You are not weak. You are not broken. You are not failing. You are a parent who loved deeply and continues to love still. Surviving this is not small.

This Christmas, I will keep going. My living children will be loved fiercely. My firstborn will be carried in my heart, exactly where he has always been. The truth will be allowed space.

Joy and grief can exist together. Love does not end. Missing you is not something that needs fixing.

It is simply part of who I am now.