Grief is an Ocean (7 minute read)

Yeah, so it’s the holidays. Why are we talking about grief?

My father passed away five weeks ago—right before Halloween, my mom’s birthday, my girls’ basketball season, Thanksgiving, and now the holiday I celebrate, Christmas. Oh, wait... there’s one more: New Year’s Eve.

2026 will be the first year that I won’t have access to an earthly father—a year I don’t really want to arrive.

It’s a year where my dad can’t check in on the girls by calling to see how they’re doing, how their games and tests have gone, or what snacks he can send them (the ones their mom definitely wouldn’t approve of). A year where his chair sits empty at the table. A year where I no longer have his unwavering support—the kind every child needs, no matter their age.

This will be the year of firsts, as they say.

Grief is an unwanted change.

It can come through death, divorce, infertility, miscarriage, a move, children growing up, aging parents, chronic illness, an empty nest, job loss, menopause, political election outcomes, war, and so much more.

Unwanted change is jarring because we have little control over our longing—for something good, which is often simply the desire to love someone or something. And we have even less control over whether the circumstances can be changed or fixed.

When my dad received a Stage IV cancer diagnosis three and a half years ago, I tried to control the disease by researching everything I could, suggesting alternative medications, exploring nutrition, and looking into treatment centers. In the end, those efforts couldn't change the outcome. My dad still died, and there was nothing I could do to stop the disease or make him live longer.

It's a painful lesson: we can't spend all of our energy trying to fix the human condition. Those efforts often come from a place of deep love, but they can also keep us from acceptance and surrender.

At the same time, if we never experienced the stage of grief known as denial—or perhaps, as I'd prefer to call it, hope (because denial can sound so pathologizing)—we might drive ourselves mad, obsessing over the exact day and minute that we or the people we love will die.

Hope, even when reality is closing in, serves a purpose. It gives our hearts room to keep breathing while our minds slowly catch up to what is happening. In that sense, denial—or hope—can be a compassionate companion at the end of life, for both the person who is dying and for the family who loves them.

This person looks like they are giving up hope. It’s devastating to feel like this for several weeks and years.

David Kessler has dedicated his academic and clinical career to understanding grief and sitting with those who have experienced profound loss. Building on Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's seminal work, The Five Stages of Grief, he co-authored On Grief and Grieving: Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss.

He might say that I am in the acute stage of grief—a season marked by exhaustion, shock, numbness, and intense sadness, anger, confusion, and preoccupation with the person who has died. Grief can also manifest physically through headaches, dizziness, brain fog, heart palpitations, and an upset stomach.

But if I could personalize this experience, I'd add another state—one that is both physical and emotional: emptiness.

In my emptiness, my body gives itself permission to grieve. My exterior finally matches my interior: sad but steady, aware that something essential is missing—something I can never get back. I find myself wanting to return to my childhood, to remember what it felt like when our family of five was whole again. Instead, I feel a sore back, a heavy body roaming aimlessly because nothing matters when you feel empty.

Julia Samuel, author of Grief Works: Stories of Life, Death, and Surviving, describes other common experiences of grief. We can begin to feel distant from the people who are still here because the only relationship we truly long for is the one we no longer have direct access to.

So much remains in front of us, and yet so much has been lost.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's this: it's okay to feel alone. It's okay to surrender to apathy. It's okay to skip a holiday.

But it's not okay to forget about the love that still surrounds you—the people who are here, whose love needs your love to flourish.

Loss can breed apathy. But it can also remind us to hold tightly to the only thing that has ever truly mattered: love.

I miss seeing chalk art on my driveway.

I’m thinking about your unwanted change this season, too.

How can we gather together—virtually or in person—to make this season less about consumption and more about seeing people where they really are? How can we honor our grief for as long as we need to, while gently encouraging ourselves to live more fully with the people who are still beside us?

Chances are, they’re grieving something, too.

Below are seven things I’ve been thinking about this season as they relate to grief.

1. Perennials are essential.

My dad bought and planted a Schlumbergera (the fancy name for a Christmas cactus) and a couple of Hemerocallis (daylilies) for me. Having grown up on a farm, he understood the beauty of living seasonally. He appreciated creation, its rhythms, and the quiet magic of watching something grow from a seedling.

Now that he is no longer here, I get to experience a new season with him through the plants he once nurtured.

Perennials remind us that life returns somehow, someway.

The seasons teach us that we are never stuck in the same—the same coldness, the same routine, the same landscape. Life moves with the earth and the sun, and so do we. Although we can predict when new seasons arrive, we cannot begin to know what that season will hold for us until after it is gone.

My dad gave me a plant I thought bloomed only at Christmas. As it turns out, it blooms again in late spring.

Sometimes, it’s just nice to be surprised.

2. Make a list of what restores you.

Without turning it into another performance or productivity exercise, make a list of what feels restorative and healing this season.

Maybe it's skipping Christmas gifts and taking a family vacation instead. Maybe it's saying no to a few traditions so you can say yes to rest.

For me, restoration looks like not planning too far ahead. Other than work and parenting responsibilities, I'm giving myself permission to decide at the last minute whether I have the energy to attend something this December.

Which brings me to number three.

3. Acknowledge that your energy is finite.

Our bodies are not machines, yet we often treat them as if they're race cars.

When do you park your car without second guessing where you parked?

Grief has a way of making us second-guess every decision. Should I go? Should I stay? Am I doing enough?

As much as you can, try to quiet those judgmental questions.

Accept that you are a human being, not a human doing.

Maybe even celebrate your limitations.

4. Read books about grief—including children's books.

Lora-Ellen McKinney (whose work is well worth exploring) wrote a children's book called All About Grief, which is sitting in front of me as I write this.

In it, she describes many different forms of grief: normal, chronic, cumulative, delayed, exaggerated, distorted, masked, traumatic, and collective.

As you can imagine, grief is messy. It doesn't fit neatly into one category or follow a predictable path. It comes in different forms, different intensities, and different timelines. Some grief is shared openly, while other grief remains hidden.

Books normalize our experience and put language to feelings that are difficult to describe. They remind us that we are not alone.

5. List coping skills about what we can do when we feel like grief is a wave that engulfs us.

Some days grief sounds quiet. Other days, it crashes over us unexpectantly (this is called a grief ambush).

When those waves come, it helps to have a list of gentle ways to care for yourself.

Below are a few ideas inspired by the children's book What Does Grief Feel Like?

Talk about the person you miss or the experience that is causing your sadness. Create art that expresses your grief. Allow yourself to cry. Practice deep breathing. Share your grief with someone you trust—a therapist, a friend, or a family member. Visit a place that reminds you of the person you love. Light a candle in their memory. Start a fundraiser or perform an act of kindness in their honor.

One practice I would add is creating a memory box.

Something that I would like to include in my Mom’s memory box for my Dad is his hairbrush. 

6. Consider joining a grief group.

Many churches have free “Surviving the Holidays” grief groups which you can find here. Or, if faith-based groups are not your thing, and if you’re lucky to live near a Grief Center such as this, I highly recommend it.

I once heard a group therapist say that she wishes group therapy were as normalized as individual therapy.

There is so much healing that can happen in the presence of people who understand your pain without needing it explained. Grief can feel incredibly isolating, but a group reminds us that we don't have to carry it alone.

If you've never tried one, consider it.

Vulnerability often feels better than we imagine it will.

Groups also make it much harder to disappear into your grief completely—which is exactly what many of us find ourselves doing in our day-to-day lives. They invite us, at our own pace, to be seen, to listen, and to remember that healing often happens in the company of others

7. Check out David Kessler’s website.

He is a gentle and masterful guide throughout grief journeys. He offers helpful articles, groups, books, and videos. And, some of his videos are free! He notes how essential community is during times of grief, as we need both “people we can go deep with and people who can distract us” to get us through. 

Extra Credit- In my emptiness, I start to practice the antidote to my longing, which has become a (heavenly) wonder about life existing beyond what I can see.

When I look up at the sky, I’m reminded that perhaps home is bigger than this world—and that, if we're open to it, a new home awaits.

Love never dies. Some may say that grief is love that has nowhere to go. I prefer to think that we never stop loving our loved ones and they never stop loving us (noted by David Kessler in his Grief 101 video).

That’s it for now, Friends. I hope that you feel supported during your grief journey. You are never alone. Grief and longing are a universal human condition. Be gentle to yourself this Holiday if you are swimming in the unpredictable ocean of grief.

LoveWell,

Kim