Unlike many of my trauma survivor clients, for whom holidays were often a nightmare, I am one of those people who grew up with a family who knew how to do wonderful holidays. At home in Winter Park, Florida, the holiday season was filled with advent calendars and candles, nativity scenes at Disney World, Christmas cookie baking, homemade presents and art projects, Christmas carols twinkling out of surround sound speakers, and lots and lots of oranges (it was Florida, after all).
Christmas Eve was cooking in the kitchen with my mother all day to prepare for our annual post-church party for about 100 of my family’s friends, then the candlelit service at the Methodist church, which I loved, then feasting at our party on things I was only allowed to eat once a year, then my best friend Geoff and I would leave the party and go look at Christmas lights, before attending his church’s midnight service, which was the only night all year I got to stay out past 11 o’clock.
This meant I only got a few hours of sleep before my 9 year younger sister would wake me up, since Christmas morning started no later than 7am. There were trees and stockings (the best part) and bacon wrap ups and the Pillsbury cinnamon muffins with the orange glaze that smelled better than they tasted. Whoever was the youngest person in the house (usually my sister Keli) played Santa Claus and was responsible for deciding which presents got opened when, one at a time, so the present opening could last for hours, while we all appreciated, oohing and ahhing, what each person got. At the end, we’d each have a stack of goodies, in addition to piles of candy that we were only allowed to keep for 3 days. (It all went in the trash by Day 4, so we wouldn’t hoard it all year. So there was a lot of binging.)
After Christmas morning at home, we split our Christmas’s between Mom’s family and Dad’s- Mom’s in the morning and then Dad’s in the afternoon. On my mother’s side, where she was one of six kids and I lost track of how many cousins I have, it was parades and huge family potluck feasts and lots of presents and a blaring TV and happy chaos at one of my uncle’s houses. On my father’s side, it was Grandma’s paella and everyone playing classical string instruments and recorder flutes, singing along with the piano in full orchestral sound. There were deep dive conversations led by my therapist auntie Trudy, after which we played with my (only two) cousins, who I loved, and then walked around Lake Hollingsworth in Lakeland, Florida, where my Dad’s family all lived.
That all changed after I grew up and my parents became the only people I know who sold their oceanfront house in New Smyrna Beach, Florida to retire in Ohio. By that point, I had my own family in California, and we started our own traditions. The Muir Beach Holiday art fair my daughter always sold her jewelry in, the over-the-top Rombeiro’s Christmas House in Novato, the dancing Christmas tree in Birdland, treats at the Ferry Building and ice skating in Union Square in San Francisco, Winter Solstice events in the redwoods of Muir Woods, and Christmas Eve caroling with our neighbors by the fireplace over a pint at the old English Pelican Inn.
My daughter always helped me wrap Christmas presents and came home from school with all her Waldorf artsy presents.
Christmas morning continued the family traditions of the littlest being Santa Clause, all of us in matching hoodie footie pajamas, Trans-Siberian Orchestra blaring from the speakers, a fire in the wood burning stove, bacon wrap ups and sometimes even the sickly-sweet rolls, a homemade frittata, and then a hike in Muir Woods, singing by the usually swollen river recently repopulated with salmon. My mother would come live with us for two months right after her own Christmas in Ohio, so we’d do Christmas again once Mom got there before New Years, followed by New Years Eve festivities and my daughter’s birthday on the now-soiled January 6, with fondue for the whole family at the Melting Pot.
But this year…I can’t quite find my holiday spirit. My father died two weeks after my daughter was born, my mother died in 2018, my daughter’s father, who lived next door for ten years since our divorce has ex-patriated to Portugal, and my daughter is on a European gap year and can’t come home for the holidays because of visa issues.
So it’s just me, my partner Jeff, and April, our housemate, au pair, and chosen family, who has lived with us for 13 years and helped me raise my daughter, who will be moving back to the East Coast to be closer to her family, now that my daughter is grown.
And I am hard core grieving.
I know that an empty nest is what’s supposed to happen when your child is eighteen, and i’m happy for my ex that he’s found a new home in Portugal. But I wasn’t prepared to not see my daughter all year, rupturing that physical bond cold turkey, even though we’re fostering the emotional bond with daily WhatsApp voice messages and weekly Zooms.
I wasn’t prepared for April to move back east, even though it’s absolutely what she should do so she can reconnect to her own family, now that her job of helping me raise my child is complete.
I wasn’t prepared to have to move out of the rental house I’ve raised my child in for 16 straight years and possibly lose my local community if we can’t find housing in this very small town.
I wasn’t prepared for a convicted felon to win another election in the country that no longer feels like home to me.
And I wasn’t prepared for the possibility of needing to re-house my dog, because without my daughter, her father, and April as back up, we’re gone too much to be fair, reliable dog parents and can’t seem to find a good alternative for dog care.
I also wasn’t prepared for how hard all this collective loss and grieving are hitting me emotionally, like there are tears in my eyes even just writing this sentence, because the parts that are arising in me feel seen and heard (by me, and by you, dear reader.)
It’s too much.
And…I’m very aware it’s not just me, that this is the experience countless people have every holiday season. It creates a kind of cognitive dissonance to feel like you’re supposed to be happy and jolly, but what you’re really feeling is sad longing and heart-wrenching grief, either because you’re missing something or someone you once had, or because you never got what was your birthright to begin with- a family you actually enjoyed spending holidays with, who treated you with dignity, respect, and loving acceptance for who you really are.
If you’re having nostalgia for good times now past, like I do, at least you can hang onto the silver lining of memories you hold to your chest like diamonds. But if you never got the holly jolly Christmas or the parents who showered you with blessings and affection and Disney dreams or the child of your own whose eyes lit up with wish lists and candy canes, these times can be even harder.
So I don’t mean to be a downer for those of you having holly jollies. But since you’re probably less likely to be checking your email today than those of us who are grieving, sad, or lonely, this one is for the others like me.
I’m trying to practice radical gratitude these days, making sure I don’t take for granted the fact that everything I have not yet lost is worthy of unspeakable joy and heart-opening appreciation. And I’m trying to focus on what is good and new- the adventure of finding a new home to share with Jeff, our first Christmas officially living together as a couple on only one coast, my probably last Christmas with April, the neighbors I’ll still get to sing with on Christmas Eve, and the new traditions I’ll create now, like the Dickens Fair we’re going to this weekend, visiting my friend Ed’s family, like we did for Thanksgiving, and maybe the Filoli Gardens light display I’ve always wanted to see but haven’t made it to when life was more hectic as a mother around the holidays.
But I also don’t want to bypass the losses. They’re real and deserve their own tears.
The empty nest is a particularly peculiar kind of ambiguous loss. It’s not like my daughter has died. I chat with her every day. It’s not like she’s done anything wrong by leaving or I’ve done anything wrong to cause her to leave. She’s doing exactly what she should be doing- taking art classes, meeting new people, exploring Europe, going to nightclubs and hanging out with circus performers and fire dancers at midnight, overlooking city lights in Lisbon, individuating from her parents and becoming her own solid, post-pandemic weirdness human.
But nothing prepares you for the pit in your stomach every morning, when you wake up to silence and so many fewer responsibilities, and so much achingly less daily joy and happy chaos.
I’ll get to the “What’s next?” part soon, I’m sure. But for right now, there’s not much forward-looking and excitement about all this open space. There’s just the gaping hole in my heart that can only be filled with my own wise, loving Self, caring for my empty nester parts. And the wonderful moments of connection with Jeff and April and Gaia the Moose (the dog) and my neighbors, who all watched my little girl turn into a beautiful woman and fly away.
Wherever you are emotionally today, whatever holiday you may or may not be celebrating, my heart goes out to you.
If you’d like to process any parts that have arisen during the holidays, work on a memoir you might be dreaming of writing, or learn more about using Internal Family Systems as a writing practice for healing and finding your most authentic writing voice, please join me and IFS lead trainer Frank Anderson, MD for WRITE TO HEAL.
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