Before my mother died, but when she was already very sick, I was dropping my son off at day care.
As we arrived, there was another little boy being dropped off by his mom. He couldn’t have been more than three years old.
And he was wailing.
“I want my mom! I want my mom to come back!”
His sobs were raw and unfiltered. These weren’t the quick, performative tears that fade moments after a parent leaves. No, this little boy was utterly inconsolable. He wanted his mom, and he wanted her desperately.
I have rarely felt more attuned to someone else’s pain.
Because at that moment, I already knew what was coming.
My mom had terminal cancer, and like this boy, I could imagine a world where my mother wouldn’t come back. I could see myself mirrored in his distress: a small, helpless child crying for the parent I loved more than anything, feeling swallowed up by a world that suddenly seemed too big and too cruel.
I understood him completely. On a deep, primal level, I knew that panic—the need for someone who is slipping away before your eyes.
MY MOM HAS BEEN GONE FOR OVER THREE YEARS NOW.
Since then, I’ve experienced so many firsts without her. I’ve endured moments that felt impossible to survive. And I’ve had two more children—children who will never know what it feels like to celebrate the holidays with my mother present.
They won’t know the smell of her cooking: the turkey roasting, her special crescent rolls with sausage, or the holiday punch with rainbow sherbet she always made. They won’t experience stockings stuffed to the brim with little treasures from Grandma or see how effortlessly she hosted crowds, making it feel like pure joy. They won’t know the way she created a sense of home that enveloped everyone in warmth.
Every holiday, my mom would host a Craft Fair at our house with her best friend and next-door neighbor. For three days, the first floor of our home transformed into a cozy holiday shop brimming with handmade crafts. The kitchen overflowed with special treats and her famous homemade punch.
My sister and I loved those Craft Fairs. They were the heartbeat of our childhood holidays, quaint and magical in a way you rarely see today. They were pure magic, reflecting my mother’s extraordinary gift for making everyone feel welcome and cherished.
WHEN THE HOLIDAYS ARRIVE, I FEEL HER ABSENCE DEEPLY.
If you’ve lost a parent, you know this feeling. Sometimes it’s a dull ache that mutes things that were once bright and joyful—putting up decorations, baking cookies, hanging ornaments. Other times, the pain hits so hard you can’t look directly at it, like staring at the sun; the light is too bright, too sharp. You look away to protect yourself, but it doesn’t make the longing any less real.
And yet, life goes on. You muddle through. You carry on traditions, even when the person who made them feel magical is no longer there. You find ways to fill the empty spaces at the holiday table.
FOR ME, THE PAST THREE YEARS HAVE BEEN A TEST.
If a tradition is tied to someone who’s gone, how can it ever feel right again? For me, it hasn’t—at least not yet. The holidays used to be my mom. She didn’t just participate in them; she was the magic, the heart of the season. Her love of Christmas was legendary: she had a collection of Santas displayed year-round, and even now, I keep one small Santa by our front door all year. It reminds me of her, and it makes me happy.
I have a young family now, like many of you. My children need to experience the holidays, to build their own memories—memories I hope to fill with love, joy, and a sense of home. And so, I try. I try for them, and I try for me.
This year, we’re doing Thanksgiving differently. My dad, sister, and I will gather with our families at my aunt’s house. There will be cousins, aunts, and uncles—an entire house full of people. After dinner, we’ll take a trip with cousins from the other side of the family, up to North Conway.
It’s not how we’ve celebrated in the past, but it feels right this year. Perhaps it’s the start of a new tradition. My aunt recently became a foster mother, and her young foster son will spend his first holiday with our family. I don’t know his story, but I can imagine he might be feeling, like I once did, the acute ache of missing a parent this holiday season.
There are many of us who know this feeling.
IF YOU’RE MISSING SOMEONE SPECIAL THIS HOLIDAY SEASON, PLEASE KNOW THIS:
It’s okay to feel dulled out. It’s okay to ache. It’s okay if looking straight at the sun of your grief is too much—you can look away, and you’ll look up again when you’re ready. When you are ready, you’ll decide what new traditions to create, and what old ones you can carry forward.
And if, like that little boy at the day care, you are crying for your mom, know this: I understand. I am you. And so are many of us.
