When the Ribbon Comes Off

What is it about the holidays that sets in motion a force so determined to unearth our grief? Even when we believe we’re prepared—when we’ve done what we can to be with it, tend to it, honor it—we still hope, on some level, that we’ve contained it. Wrapped it up neatly. Tucked it away like the other packages under the tree. And then something as simple and well-intended as “Happy Holidays” can tear that ribbon clean off.

In an instant, you’re knocked off center. Emotions surge through your body. Tears rise without warning. You may know that speaking your loved one’s name would help—that sharing your grief might ease the pressure—but then another layer emerges: the fear of doing or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Is it okay to bring your grief into a festive gathering?

Is there room for sorrow in the season of cheer?

This is exactly what I experienced at a recent holiday art gathering. One simple “Happy Holidays” sent me spiraling. Grief is chaotic. It’s messy and utterly unpredictable. The wildness of grief cannot be contained. Yet, as a dear friend reminded me, I can set a container that allows it to have its untamable quality.

Grief does not want me to make it go away. It does not want to sit down and shut up just because it’s the holidays. In fact, the harder I try to tame it—or the more I think it has quieted—the more forcefully it makes itself known. It wants expression. It wants witness. It wants grace. It doesn’t want to be fixed, changed, or reshaped. It wants to be honored.

And when I ask my grief what it wants of me, as my friend suggested, maybe it wants me to do less rather than more. Maybe it simply wants me to sit with it, with full acceptance and no agenda at all. It may just want me to be. To be real. To be true. To give it witness. Or it may want to be left entirely alone--not ignored--but alone, telling me, “Go on—get out, do something, get out into the world."

I suppose I did allow my grief to join me at the event, as it must have been visible on some level. When a friend put his arm around me and gently said, “I want to give you a hug. It seems like small talk isn’t appropriate now,” I felt immediate relief. He knew. He understood. That meant everything. Then he gave me another hug. How simple and how powerful witness can be.

My tears—and the second-guessing about whether they were visible—did not take away from my evening, though they did claim their share of energy, as my endurance was brief. I shared beautiful connections with my friends, and especially with the adult children of a dear friend. Hearing them reminisce about days gone by—days when my son Graham was still here--filled me with love and gratitude, even as sadness and longing were present, too. But I continue to find beauty as I peel back the layers of grief and give each one its own expression.

The next morning as I asked my grief what it wanted, I was called to a sunrise walk--time in the quiet of the morning. Mid way through a song emerged. Grief asked of me to sing. And to sing loud. So, I did. In the empty, barren snow-covered open space, with heavenly clouds dimly lit by the sunrise painted sky, I sang. And one line—I sang as loudly as my lungs could sing. Surprisingly, I remembered all the words to the song.

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It's gonna be a bright, bright Sun-shiny day.

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone. All of the bad feelings have disappearedHere is the rainbow I've been prayin' for. It's gonna be a bright, bright Sun-shiny day.

Look all around, there's nothin' but blue skiesLook straight ahead, nothin' but blue skies.

As I let the words move through me, I felt that it was my son, Graham, who was speaking. Mom, I’m okay. Nothing but blue skies here. I knew, beyond a doubt, that he was telling me this, just as he has before—not to take away my pain, but to honor it, and to wrap it in love.

My hope for you, and for me, is that we embrace our grief in whatever way it wants to show itself. That when the ribbon on your neat package of grief is ripped off without warning, you let the contents spill and splatter in every direction. And that you trust the slow, tender gathering of each and every piece, with care and gentleness, as a sacred act in and of itself. That you welcome the sentimental reminiscing from friends, invoking sadness, but filled with love. That you embrace the hugs offered and pause to really feel them. That you don’t shy away from speaking your truth to trusted friends, letting your tears flow, and allowing yourself to be witnessed. And, that you allow the messy wildness of your grief to have its day—again, and again, and again. Grief does not go away. But it does shift and deepen. And in that depth is beauty.

At a Sacred Journey With Grief Retreat, February 8-15, 2026, in Belize, you will be offered a nourishing, loving, and honoring container to let your grief be in its wildness, quietness, or wherever it chooses to be.

Registration has been extended to January 6, 2026! A few spots remain!

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