When Grief Arrives in the Middle of the Holidays

Some years, the holidays arrive with sparkle and ease. Some years, they arrive with a weight you didn’t plan for.

This year, mine arrived quietly — and with loss.

My childhood friend Matthew died on December 4.
We met in third grade — two kids who understood each other long before either of us realized how much we'd come to mean to each other. His mom kept a picture he drew that year — two stick people and the line:

“I’m happy Heidi is my friend.”

Neither of us knew then how true that would become.

Getting together became an oasis for me over the years — a retreat, a place where I could just be myself. Even as adults, no matter how long we went between visits, the ease remained.

I saw him the weekend before he died.
He wasn’t well, but he was still him — sharp, stubborn, funny, and tender in the way that only lifelong friendships can be. We talked about love and loss. He shared the heartbreak of a recent relationship ending, and I could feel how much his heart was aching. He didn’t try to make light of it. That wasn’t our friendship.

We talked about my mom too.
He missed her.
He always loved her.

I’m grateful I listened to the nudge inside me that said: Go.
That visit was a gift I didn’t know I wouldn’t get again.

And now he’s gone.

I’m sad.
But I’m also steady — the kind of steady that comes when you could sense the loss approaching even while hoping you were wrong.

It’s a strange truth of grief:
two things can be real at once.

Sadness and steadiness.
Weight and clarity.
Missing someone and being grateful for the final moment you shared.

Grief teaches you that.

When Grief Arrives in the Middle of the Holidays

The holidays amplify everything — joy, exhaustion, memory, longing.

My dad and brother are grieving Matthew in their own ways too.
He was woven into our family story.

We don’t grieve the same — not even close — but we loved the same person.
And sometimes that truth is enough.

These last few days, I’ve been tired — the kind of tired that comes from emotional weight, not lack of sleep. I enjoyed the holiday lights and the dramatic king tide with a friend. But underneath all that beauty, there has been a quiet pull toward slowing down.

Toward honesty.
Toward presence without performance.
Toward asking myself what I actually have the capacity for this season.

This Year, I Don’t Have the Capacity to Perform

We don’t celebrate Christmas in a traditional way. One of the things I appreciate about our home is that nothing is forced.

But with my dad and brother, expectations are unspoken — which sometimes makes them feel even louder.

The truth is simple:

I don’t have the capacity this year.

Not for travel.
Not for pushing myself past my bandwidth.
Not for performing a holiday I’m not living inside of.

And naming that doesn’t make me ungrateful.
It makes me honest.

This is Living Real Aloha in practice:

Recognize what’s true.
Embrace what’s here.
Align with compassion.
Live with integrity.

Naming your capacity isn’t rejection.
It’s clarity.
It’s love without self-erasure.

Just because we're grieving the same loss doesn't mean we experience it the same way.

Dad has endured so much loss — my mom, both of his brothers, friends, now Matthew — and he carries it quietly, often in the language of regret. "I wish I would have..." "I didn't..." As if going back over it might change something.

My brother turns inward too, and while our relationship is complicated, I can still see the ache beneath his practicality.

And me?
I write.
I reflect.
I name things so I don't have to hold them alone.

We're three people grieving the same life, but not in the same language.

And that used to make me feel like I was failing someone — or at least not doing it right.

Now I understand:
There is no right way.
There is only your way.

But What If This Is the Last Holiday?

This is the fear many of us carry.

What if this is the last year?
What if I regret not showing up?
What if they die and I wasn’t there?

I get it.
I’ve lived this more than once.

Here’s what experience has taught me:

Showing up exhausted, resentful, or performative does not create meaningful memories.

If you’re only present in body, they feel that hollowness too.

The moments that matter are built on presence, not proximity.

And presence sometimes looks like:

• a phone call when you have the bandwidth to really listen

• a visit on a different day, when you’re rested enough to be soft

• a moment of honesty instead of a mask of “fine”

You honoring your capacity
is you honoring them.

And if this is the last holiday, then presence — honest presence — matters even more.
Not performance.

You won’t regret honesty.
You’ll regret disappearing behind a smile.

Holidays Were Never Meant to Be Performed

Somewhere along the way, holidays turned into a checklist — meals, miles, expectations we never agreed to.

But originally?
They were about being together.

Not perfectly.
Not festively.
Just together.

And sometimes togetherness happens in quieter ways:

A shared memory.
A voice message.
A gentle check-in.
A slower rhythm that honors where you are.

This is still presence.
It still counts.
It still matters.

If You’re Not Feeling “Holiday Enough,” You’re Not Broken

If you’re tired, you’re not ungrateful.
If you need quiet, you’re not withdrawing.
If you can’t do it all, you’re not failing.

You’re human.
You’re grieving.
You’re listening to your own heart.

You don’t owe anyone a performance of joy.
You owe yourself truth.

This is how we honor grief.
This is how we honor love.
This is how we live aloha — especially when the heart is tender.

A Quiet Note About Grief and Love

Losing Matthew reminded me of something simple:

The love we offer each other — the real kind — becomes the thing that holds us long after the person is gone.

In our last conversation, we talked about love.
About heartbreak.
About missing my mom.
About how our friendship had taken shape over the years.

I felt his ache. 
He didn’t cover it. 
That wasn’t who he was with me.

I love you, Matt.
Hug my Mom for me.

I’m grateful I showed up that weekend.
I’m grateful we talked the way we always did.
I’m grateful love came through — even in the ache.

That, to me, is the heart of this season.
Not the performance.
The presence.
 

Living Real Aloha
Resilience Empowers Authentic Living

If this resonated with you, I invite you to explore more at Heidi Coleman | Living Real Aloha — including The Middle of Goodbye Journal and ways to stay connected.