When December Feels Heavy: Finding Your Way Through the Holidays

Can I be honest with you?

I know what the world tells us December should be. The family gathered around the table. Laughter echoes through warm houses. Twinkling lights that make everything feel magical. Love, joy, peace—all wrapped up in a month that's supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year.

But maybe that's not your December.

Maybe you're reading this because December feels heavy. Perhaps you're dreading the days ahead instead of anticipating them. Maybe you're already exhausted from pretending you're okay, from putting on a smile when all you want is to get through this month without falling apart.

I see you.

Maybe your December is quiet in all the wrong ways—empty chairs where someone you love used to sit. Perhaps it's loud with tension, strained conversations, and relationships that feel more like walking on eggshells than celebrating together. Maybe you're surrounded by people and still feeling profoundly, achingly alone.

Everywhere you look, the world is decorated for joy. Store windows glow with carefully arranged happiness. Social media fills with photos of matching pajamas, perfectly decorated trees, and families who seem to have it all figured out. The carols play on repeat, singing about coming home, togetherness, and peace on earth.

And meanwhile, you're just trying to breathe through it.

The contrast is exhausting, isn't it? It's not just that you're sad—it's that you feel like you're supposed to hide it. Like you're the only one not feeling the magic. Like, something must be wrong with you for not being able to muster the holiday spirit everyone else seems to have in abundance.

Let me tell you something: there is nothing wrong with you.

Your sadness doesn't make you ungrateful. Your struggle doesn't make you weak. Your inability to feel festive doesn't make you broken. Sometimes December is just hard. And pretending it isn't doesn't make it easier—it just makes you feel more alone.

So if you're navigating this season with a heavy heart, I want you to know: you're not alone. I've been there. I am there. And I see you.

The Weight of Empty Chairs

I remember the year we lost my abuelita. Our first Christmas without her felt so unfair. It was hard—especially for my mom. She felt orphaned. We did our best to cheer her up, but deep down I knew she was sad. We all missed her dearly.

I can still see my mom's face that day. The way she tried to smile, she wanted to keep it together for everyone else. But in the quiet moments—when she thought no one was looking—I saw it. The grief. The emptiness. The longing for just one more conversation, one more hug, one more chance to hear her mother's voice.

Even as we reminisce, as we joke and laugh about the things she used to say and do, it's not the same as having her with us. The stories are sweet, but they can't fill the space where she used to sit. They can't replace her voice, her presence, the way she made everything feel warmer just by being there.

Grief doesn't follow a calendar. It doesn't pause for the holidays, and sometimes the expectation of joy makes the absence even more pronounced. Whether you've lost someone recently or years ago, December can reopen old wounds. The traditions you once shared, the inside jokes, the specific way they did things—these memories surface with a bittersweet ache.

Keeping Memory Alive

Now, on my Christmas tree hangs a white angel in memory of her. As we know, life goes on. It's up to us to keep her memory alive in our hearts. We never forget, but the ache hurts a little less with time—becoming a cherished memory I hold on to dearly.

My abuelita loved to cook during the holidays. And now, as I cook, I can see her smiling at me for doing a great job, for making her favorite dishes. I picture her being surrounded by the family, how much she would love to be here with us.

Sometimes I sit on my couch, drinking my coffee, and I admire the white angel in the tree. I close my eyes, and I feel her hugs. Bizarre, right? But in that moment, I think of her. I smile and tell her, "Hi, abuela. I miss you."

Through her cooking, her inspiration, her jokes, her music, her favorite flowers—I do all these things to keep her memory fond. I acknowledge she wasn't perfect, but I choose to see and hold onto the good. The way she made me feel. How much she loved me. The privilege of seeing some of her great-grandkids.

So yes, I deeply know how hard Christmas can feel. Heavy. Sad. Lonely.

When "Home for the Holidays" Feels Complicated

Not all families gather around tables filled with laughter. I wish I could tell you that every family is a safe place, that every home is filled with warmth, but that wouldn't be true.

Some relationships are fractured. Some are toxic. Some simply don't exist anymore—not by choice, but by necessity. By safety.

Maybe you've had to set boundaries with family members who hurt you. Perhaps you've walked away from a relationship that was damaging your mental health, your peace, or your sense of self-worth. Maybe the people who are supposed to love you have made it clear—through their words or their silence—that you're not welcome, not accepted, not enough.

And now December is here, and the cultural narrative insists that everyone should be reconciling, forgiving, and celebrating together. The movies show estranged family members reuniting. The songs sing about coming home. Everyone assumes you'll be with family, and when you're not, they ask questions you don't know how to answer without revealing too much.

Sometimes the healthiest choice is distance. Sometimes love means protecting yourself. Sometimes you can't go home for Christmas because home was never safe to begin with.

And that choice—as right as it may be—can come with its own kind of grief during a season that glorifies family reunion. You might feel guilty, even though you've done nothing wrong. You might feel lonely, even though you made the brave choice to prioritize your wellbeing. You might grieve not just the family you have, but the family you wish you had.

If this is you, please hear me: choosing your safety, your peace, your healing—that's not selfish. That's survival. That's a strength. And the sadness you feel about it is valid, even if the boundary itself is necessary.

The Loneliness in a Crowded Room

You can be surrounded by people and still feel profoundly alone. You may be far from home, starting over in a new place. Your life looks different from what you imagined it would be by now. Maybe you're struggling in ways that feel impossible to explain to others who seem so effortlessly happy.

Or maybe you're in your home, all quiet, staring at microwave food—or perhaps no food at all. No one is calling. No one is texting. The silence is eerie, isn't it? Everyone else seems to be somewhere, with someone, doing something. And you're just... here.

The house finally goes quiet. The dishes are still out. The lights feel too bright. The exhaustion hits all at once—not just physical, but emotional. This is when the feelings show up. Not during the chaos, but after. You sit on the edge of the bed or couch and feel the weight of it all settle in. The loneliness. The grief. The ache of missing someone or something you can't quite name.

I know that feeling. I know what it's like when the world goes quiet, and all you're left with is the heaviness in your chest.

Permission to Feel What You Feel

Here's what matters: your feelings are valid. You don't need to force gratitude, manufacture joy, or apologize for not being in the holiday spirit. It's okay to sit with sadness. It's OK to skip events that feel too painful. It's OK to create new traditions or abandon old ones entirely.

Getting Through the Hard Moments

When the weight feels especially heavy, here are some gentle ways to care for yourself in the moment:

• Step Away if Needed: It's okay to take a short break from gatherings or overwhelming situations. Excuse yourself, step outside, and find a quiet room. You don't owe anyone an explanation.
• Ground Yourself: Name 5 things you can see, 4 you can touch, 3 you can hear—bring yourself back to the present. This simple practice can calm your nervous system when emotions feel overwhelming.
• Stick to Simple Routines: Eat regularly, hydrate, rest, and keep a basic daily structure. When everything feels chaotic, these small acts of self-care anchor you.
• Limit Triggers: Set boundaries with conversations, places, or social media that increase stress. You have permission to mute, unfollow, or politely change the subject.
• Protect Your Heart from Comparison: Please take heed—don't spend too much time scrolling through other people's lives on social media during the holidays. Comparison is the thief of joy, and nothing good will come from measuring your reality against someone else's highlight reel. What you see online isn't the whole story. Protect your heart and limit your scrolling.
• Move Your Body: A short walk, a stretch, or gentle movement can help ease tension. You don't need a complete workout—just movement that feels good.
• Pray or Journal: Write out your thoughts, read Scripture, or sit quietly with God. Pour out what's in your heart without editing or judging yourself.
• Choose One Safe Person: Have someone you can text or call if emotions spike. Let them know ahead of time: "I might need to reach out this month."

You don't have to do everything—one small step is enough for today. Healing happens moment by moment, and support is always available.

Don't Isolate—Find Your People

When December feels heavy, the temptation to isolate can be intense. It feels safer to stay home, to avoid the questions, to hide from the world that seems so effortlessly joyful. But isolation only deepens the loneliness.

Here's what I've learned: isolating only makes you feed into your fears, into toxic thoughts. The enemy is good at breaking you down once you're alone in your mind. That's why I'm asking you—as scary and vulnerable as it is—please don't isolate. Please reach out.

I have helped many people who have felt this way. And you know what? We don't always talk about anything deep. Sometimes we just sit on the couch and watch movies. Sometimes when they do want to talk, we chat about anything but what's going on—until they're ready to open up. And that's okay. Sometimes presence is more important than advice.

You don't need someone to fix you. You don't need someone with all the answers. You just need someone to sit with you, to remind you that you're not alone in this.

Do not isolate. Reach out to a support group. Join a gathering, even if you have to push yourself to go. Find ways to not feel so alone—a dance class, a cooking class, a book club. The library offers many workshops. Your local church, community center, or recreation department has events happening. You don't have to be the life of the party; you just have to show up.

There's a lady at our church I know. She's a widow with grown children, and though I don't pry into her situation, we made sure she became part of the celebration. We gave her flowers one Sunday. It seems simple, but she felt seen and loved. Her face lit up in a way that told us how much it mattered.

Acts of kindness needn't be elaborate or expensive. It's the effort to make someone feel loved that counts. A text message. A phone call. An invitation, even if they say no. Showing up with coffee. Remembering someone's name. These small gestures create connections that remind us we're not walking through this alone.

Small Acts of Tenderness Toward Yourself

If December feels heavy, be gentle with yourself. That might look like setting boundaries with family, saying no to invitations, or spending the day exactly how you need to. It might mean lighting a candle for someone you've lost, hanging an ornament in their memory, volunteering for a cause that matters to you, or simply allowing yourself to rest.

It might mean cooking their favorite recipe, playing their favorite song, or buying their favorite flowers—small rituals that say "I remember you. You mattered. You still matter."

Sometimes survival is the victory. Sometimes getting through the day is enough.

Reaching Out When You're Ready

Please take heart—I'm not asking you to do something you're not ready to do. I'm just providing options to let you know I'm here. I understand.

Sometimes, when our own hearts are heavy, reaching out to others who are hurting can bring unexpected comfort. Not as a way to avoid your own pain, but as a way to honor it—to transform grief into connection, loneliness into presence. But only if you're ready. Only if your heart leads you there. This isn't another "should" to add to your list.

People are walking the halls and spaces where others are alone. In nursing homes across the country, residents sit in rooms waiting for visitors who may never come. Our church does this every year—we visit nursing homes and bring Christmas cards to the residents. It brings such comfort to my heart to see their faces light up, to know that someone remembered them.

Consider adopting a senior. Many nursing homes need toiletries for their residents, and even more, they need people who will simply show up. Visit an elderly neighbor. Bring cookies. Sit with them. Many are so lonely that they won't tell you, but you'll know. You'll see it in how long they keep you at the door, how they don't want the conversation to end.

We invite a friend every year who doesn't have family nearby, and we spend time with him, making him feel like family. It could be someone without family, a widow, or someone who's recently lost a loved one. It could be helping a family struggling to put food on the table during the holidays or giving a gift to someone who needs it. Invite someone to a Christmas party who might otherwise spend it alone.

These small acts don't erase your own pain, but they can sit alongside it. They remind us that even in our hardest seasons, we can still offer warmth to others walking through their own darkness.

You're Not Alone in This

If you're reading this and nodding along, please know others understand. The cultural pressure to be joyful can make it feel like you're the only one struggling, but you're not. Many people are just trying to make it through, one day at a time.

And that's okay. That's more than OK.

Moving Forward, Not Forcing Forward

December will pass. The pressure will ease. And you'll still be here, having made it through. That resilience matters, even when it doesn't feel like strength.

The people we've lost would want us to live fully, to find joy again when we're ready, to hold both the grief and the gratitude. They'd like us to remember them not with guilt, but with love. Not with perfection, but with honesty about who they really were and what they meant to us.

A Final Word of Hope

I know this month is hard. I know it can feel impossible to see beauty, to see laughter and joy when your heart is heavy. But please, do not be too embarrassed to reach out, to ask for help. You might be surprised—someone is willing to help and to love you back.

You don't have to carry this alone. Some people care, who will sit with you in your sadness, who won't try to fix you but will simply be present. Reaching out isn't weakness—it's courage. It's choosing connection over isolation, even when isolation feels safer.

For those of us who have God in our hearts, please lean in. He will provide the comfort, peace, and love you need. In your darkest moments, when the weight feels unbearable, He is there. He understands your grief, your loneliness, your pain. He will help you reach out to those who will help you feel seen, loved, and cherished. Trust that He is working even when you can't see it, bringing people into your path who will offer the support and connection your heart needs.

And if it's family you're estranged from, know this: when you're ready to forgive, or even just to talk about them, it will bring so much joy into your heart. Not forced joy. Not pretend joy. But absolute, earned joy that comes from choosing healing over hurt. There's no timeline for this—it happens when you're ready, not when the calendar says you should be.

Until then, be kind to yourself. Feel what you feel. Reach out if you need support. And remember that the holiday season doesn't define your worth or your capacity for joy—it's just a few weeks on a calendar, and you get to decide what they mean for you.

Your white angel. Your cherished memories. Your aching heart. Your willingness to keep going even when it's hard. They're all part of your story, and they're all welcome here.

You are not alone. You are seen. You are valued. And you will make it through this December, one day at a time.

A Prayer for You

If you'll allow me, I'd like to pray for you:

Dear Heavenly Father,

I lift up every person reading these words who is carrying a heavy heart this December. You see them, Lord—in their loneliness, in their grief, in their struggle to simply get through each day. You know the tears they've cried in secret, the smiles they've forced, the weight they carry that no one else can see.

Father, I pray You would wrap Your arms around them right now. Let them feel Your presence in a way that comforts their weary souls. Remind them that they are not alone—that You are near to the brokenhearted, that You collect every tear, that their pain matters to You.

Give them strength for today. Not strength to pretend they're okay, but strength to be honest about their hurt. Strength to reach out when they need help. Strength to take one more breath, one more step, one more day.

Bring people into their path who will see them, truly see them. People who will sit with them in their sadness without trying to fix them. People who will offer love without judgment, presence without pressure.

For those grieving someone they've lost, comfort them with precious memories and the hope of reunion. For those dealing with broken family relationships, give them peace in the boundaries they've had to set. For those who feel profoundly alone, remind them that You are Emmanuel—God with us—always.

Help them to be gentle with themselves. To give themselves permission to feel what they feel. To know that their struggle doesn't make them weak, their sadness doesn't make them ungrateful, and their inability to feel festive doesn't make them broken.

And Lord, when they're ready—in Your timing, not the world's—bring healing to their hearts. Not healing that erases the hurt, but healing that allows joy and sorrow to coexist. Healing that honors what they've lost while opening them to what can still be found.

May they know, deep in their bones, that they are loved. By You. And by people who care, even when they can't see it.

In Jesus' name I pray, Amen.

If you're struggling with your mental health, please reach out to a counselor, therapist, or trusted person in your life.  Also, feel free to reach out to any Celebrate Recovery local chapter, or, if you attend a church, to any church group or pastor. You don't have to carry this alone.