They say the first year is the hardest.
I disagree.
My mom died on November 6th last year. When I look back, I honestly don’t know how I pulled off Thanksgiving. I planned a funeral and then turned around to create Christmas for my five kids. Somehow, you do it. And in that first year, people give you a pass. They check in. They bring meals. They gather around because you’re freshly wounded.
No matter how much you read or prepare yourself, grief is still wildly unpredictable.
As someone who has buried both her parents, I’ve learned the second year carries its own unexpected sting. Maybe that’s why this second holiday season feels heavier than the first. The first year, you’re still in shock. You move through the holidays on autopilot. You do the next thing because you don’t have a choice. But the second year? The shock has worn off, and you’re left with the reality that they’re not coming back.
But the second year? Everyone else has moved on.
Except you.
And here I am, facing my second holiday season without my mom and feeling that familiar ache rise again. Down here in the South, we decorate early, right after Halloween, but I’ve been dragging my feet. I can’t seem to make myself climb into the attic and pull down those Christmas boxes. It feels like we just celebrated Christmas. How can it be twelve whole months without her?
I fold a blanket and straighten the pillows on the couch and whisper, “How can it be Christmas already?” Tears stream down my face. I would give anything for one more Christmas with both my parents here. Just one more moment to see the beautiful things unfolding in our lives and in the lives of their grandchildren.
One more Christmas.
One more year.
One more anything.
I want to sit with you. I want your arms around me, telling me I’m a good mom. I want you in the stands watching your grandson win the state championship. I want to hear my dad’s laugh, bursting with pride over the older kids in college. And Mom… I want to be back in the kitchen with you, cooking side by side. I was intentional. I really was. But time still slipped through my hands, because deep down I knew it wouldn’t last forever.
Maybe that’s why I move through life so intentionally now. Loss changes you. It slows you down and sharpens your eyes to what matters. It teaches you to take it all in—every moment, every breath, every ordinary day.
And I’m learning something else, too: to take the holidays as they come. Not forcing myself into what I “should” feel or do. Some days I have the strength to decorate, and some days I don’t. Both are okay. I’m learning to rest when my heart needs it. I slow down when the memories rise. I let God speak to me right in the middle of the ache. Grief isn’t failure—it’s love, still alive and still reaching.
And oh, how I long for one more Christmas with both of you. Just one more chance to do it all again.
So, I’ll take a deep breath, open the attic door, and let myself feel whatever comes. Because loving you deeply means grieving you honestly… and somehow moving forward anyway.
