When the Holidays Don't Feel Like the Holidays Anymore

There is something about the beginning of November that signals a shift. The decorations start appearing, holiday music begins playing, calendars fill with gatherings, and everywhere we turn, we are reminded that the most wonderful time of the year is just around the corner.

But what happens when the most wonderful time of the year no longer feels wonderful?

What happens when the traditions that once defined your family no longer exist? When the people who were supposed to be sitting around your Thanksgiving table or opening presents on Christmas morning are no longer there? When the holidays become less about celebrating what you have and more about remembering what you've lost?

For those who have experienced trauma, the holiday season can be an especially complicated time.

Because sometimes, the holidays don't feel like the holidays anymore.

In February 2010, I survived an attempted murder-suicide at the hands of my husband of nearly 22 years. In an instant, the life I knew was gone, and my four children and I were left to navigate a future none of us could have imagined.

In the aftermath, I remember hearing repeatedly that the first year would be the hardest.

The first Thanksgiving. The first Christmas. The first birthdays. The first anniversaries.

Just get through that first year, people would tell me. It gets easier.

And somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that surviving those first twelve months would somehow mean that the worst was behind us. That once we had checked off all those painful firsts, the grief would begin to disappear and life would return to something resembling normal.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

What I didn't understand then was that grief doesn't operate on a timetable. There is no magical anniversary when everything suddenly feels right again.

In some ways, the years that followed were harder because the initial shock had worn off. The reality of what had happened was no longer new. It was simply our life.

And with that realization came the understanding that the holidays we once knew were never coming back.

Not because we didn't want them to.

But because the family we had been was forever changed.

I think mothers have a tendency to romanticize the holidays.

We imagine the perfect Christmas morning, the beautifully decorated home, the family gathered around the Thanksgiving table. We plan birthday celebrations, school events, graduations, and countless milestones, often months in advance.

We want the pictures. The memories. The traditions our children will someday share with their own families.

And we work incredibly hard to make it all happen.

We shop, decorate, cook, organize, coordinate schedules, and somehow try to make everything look effortless. We want our children to feel loved, celebrated, and secure. We want to give them a childhood filled with wonderful memories.

Perhaps most of all, we want them to look back and remember a happy family.

But what happens when life delivers something you never planned for?

When circumstances entirely beyond your control destroy the picture you worked so hard to create?

Suddenly, the holidays aren't about making everything magical. They're about making it through.

And as a mother, that can feel like failure.

I know because I've felt it.

I felt like I had failed to protect the family I was supposed to protect. Failed to give my children the childhood I envisioned. Failed to preserve the traditions, stability, and sense of security that I believed were part of my responsibility as their mother.

Intellectually, I understood that I hadn't caused what happened. But emotionally, that distinction was much harder to accept.

Because mothers have an extraordinary ability to take responsibility for things that were never ours to control.

We replay the past. We question our decisions. We wonder what we could have done differently.

And then the holidays arrive, with their relentless reminders of what family life is supposed to look like, and those feelings become even more complicated.

There were years when simply getting through the celebration was the accomplishment.

The decorations might not have been perfect. The traditions might have fallen apart. The day might have included tears, frustration, or disappointment.

And I would find myself wondering whether I had done enough.

It took me years to understand that sometimes, being a good mother doesn't mean creating the perfect holiday.

Sometimes it means showing up when you're exhausted. Making dinner when your heart is breaking. Holding everyone together as best you can while quietly wondering who is going to hold you together.

Sometimes it means accepting that you cannot make everything better.

And sometimes, simply getting through it is enough.

One of the things we don't talk about enough is that trauma doesn't just take away people.

It takes away possibilities.

It takes away the future we imagined, the celebrations we expected to share, and the memories we assumed we would have the opportunity to make.

There may have been years of disappointment, emotional distance, broken promises, or conflict long before the traumatic event itself.

And yet, despite all of that, there was often hope.

Hope that things might change. Hope that a parent might become more involved. Hope that relationships might improve. Hope that someday, somehow, the family might find its way to a healthier place.

Looking back, perhaps some of that hope was unrealistic.

But it was still hope.

And sometimes, one of the most devastating consequences of trauma is that it takes away even the possibility of things getting better.

The door closes on a future that, however unlikely, we had continued to imagine.

That is a loss all its own.

There is a difference between grieving what someone did to you and grieving what their actions did to your children.

I have worked hard to find forgiveness for the violence and devastation inflicted upon me. Forgiveness, for me, has been part of reclaiming my own life. It doesn't excuse what happened, nor does it erase the consequences.

But forgiving what was taken from my children has been an entirely different journey.

Because I see all the things that were missed.

The birthdays. The holidays. The school programs. The graduations. The accomplishments. The milestones that deserved to be celebrated by both parents.

And the ordinary moments that may not seem particularly important until you realize there will never be another opportunity to experience them.

Perhaps what makes it even more difficult is knowing that the absence didn't have to happen.

There were choices made. Choices that carried consequences far beyond the person who made them.

Consequences that children were left to carry into adulthood.

As a parent, there is a particular helplessness in watching your children navigate losses you cannot repair.

You can love them. You can support them. You can show up for every milestone and celebration.

But you cannot replace what is missing.

And sometimes, during the holidays, that reality is especially painful.

Holiday traditions are powerful because they create a sense of continuity.

The same decorations. The same recipes. The same music. The familiar rituals that tell us, year after year, that we belong to something.

But after trauma, those traditions can become painful reminders of everything that has changed.

And then comes the pressure to create something new.

People mean well when they encourage us to start new traditions. And they're right that new traditions can be healing.

But what they sometimes fail to recognize is how difficult that process can be.

Creating something new means acknowledging that what once existed is gone.

It means accepting that the family you're celebrating with today may look very different from the family you once imagined.

And it means finding the courage to create new memories while still mourning the ones that will never happen.

Sometimes the new tradition works beautifully.

Sometimes it feels forced.

Sometimes everyone is happy.

And sometimes someone cries.

There isn't a formula for getting it right.

In fact, some of the traditions we try so desperately to preserve may no longer serve the people our families have become.

Our children grow up. Relationships change. Families evolve. What worked five years ago may not work today.

And that's okay.

Perhaps part of rebuilding is recognizing that we don't have to recreate the past to have a meaningful future.

If there is one thing I wish someone had told me all those years ago, it is that healing is rarely dramatic.

It is incremental.

It happens so slowly that you often don't recognize it while it's happening.

One year, you make it through Christmas dinner without crying.

Another year, you find yourself genuinely laughing at something around the table.

A few years later, you realize you're actually looking forward to a holiday gathering rather than dreading it.

And eventually, you notice something you thought might never happen again.

You feel joy.

Not the same joy you once knew. Not the joy of a life untouched by trauma.

But a different kind of joy. One that has emerged through years of surviving, rebuilding, and learning to live with what cannot be changed.

And even then, the sadness doesn't disappear completely.

There are still holidays when the loss feels overwhelming. When a memory surfaces unexpectedly. When you find yourself missing not just a person, but an entire version of your life.

That doesn't mean you've gone backward.

It means grief and joy can coexist.

You can be grateful for the life you've rebuilt while still mourning the life you lost.

And you can experience genuine happiness without feeling guilty that someone or something is missing.

As another holiday season approaches, I find myself thinking about how much pressure we put on ourselves to make everything perfect.

Perhaps that pressure is even greater for those of us who have experienced trauma.

We want to make up for what was lost.

We want our children to have beautiful memories.

We want to prove, perhaps even to ourselves, that despite everything that happened, we can still create a happy family and a meaningful life.

But maybe the goal shouldn't be perfection.

Maybe the goal should simply be progress.

Maybe this year's holiday doesn't have to look like last year's.

Maybe we can let go of traditions that no longer bring happiness and create new ones that reflect the lives we're living today.

Maybe we can stop measuring our success as parents by how closely our families resemble the pictures we once imagined.

And maybe we can finally recognize that the circumstances that changed our families do not define our worth as mothers.

Because rebuilding a life after trauma isn't a one-time event.

It's a series of choices, made over and over again, to keep moving forward.

To keep showing up.

To keep making room for happiness, even when sadness is still present.

To be intentional about making this year just a little better than the year before.

It's been nearly seventeen years since the day that changed our lives.

Nearly seventeen holiday seasons of trying to figure out what our family looks like now. My four children are adults, building lives, relationships, and traditions of their own. I'm incredibly proud of the people they've become, but I still see the milestones their father missed, the accomplishments he never celebrated, and the relationships that never had the opportunity to grow.

And I would love to tell you that after all this time, the holidays are easy.

That the sadness is gone. That the anger has disappeared. That I've made peace with everything that happened.

But that wouldn't be true.

There are still moments when I look at my children and feel an overwhelming sadness for everything they lost. And yes, sometimes I'm still angry.

Not because I haven't moved forward or built a wonderful life, but because some things were taken from us that can never be returned.

I can forgive what was done to me. But accepting what happened to my children is harder. I don't know that I'll ever be completely at peace with that.

And perhaps I don't have to be.

The holidays look different now. Schedules are complicated, traditions evolve, and getting everyone together isn't always easy. But I still want the gatherings, the laughter, the memories, and those moments when everyone is together and, for a little while, the world feels right.

Maybe that's the mother in me who still wants to make everything perfect.

Or maybe it's simply the part of me that refuses to let what happened take away every opportunity for happiness.

Some holidays are wonderful. Others are difficult. And some are a little of both.

I've stopped believing that every holiday has to be better than the one before. Sometimes life doesn't work that way.

But I haven't stopped trying.

I still wish things had been different. I still wish my children hadn't lost so much. And sometimes, despite all the years that have passed, I still grieve the family we never got to become.

So this holiday season, I'll show up. I'll make plans. I'll try to create moments worth remembering.

And if those moments are filled with joy, I'll embrace them. If they bring sadness, I'll allow myself to feel that too.

**Because rebuilding a life after trauma doesn't mean the pain disappears. It means we keep living, loving, and making memories alongside it.**

And maybe, for now, that's enough.