My grief, observed

Not a funny one. A deeply personal reflection on holiday grief.

[This is a special bonus essay that has been on my heart for a while. This one isn’t about humor, but normally I do a weekly humorous spiritual reflection newsletter that comes out most Fridays. You should totally subscribe to that if you aren’t already.]

I had always heard that some people experienced immense sadness and grief around the holidays. It was difficult to imagine how anyone could be depressed during such a time of joy. Surely, every cookie, song, and twinkling light lifted the burdens from people’s hearts. How could anyone remain sad in the most wonderful time of the year?

I grew up in a mostly model American family: two parents, married, in a suburban home, with a nice school. Most years, we had plenty of presents under the Christmas tree. We were a typical family of 4.5—the .5 being the cat. We had our struggles, no doubt, but nothing major.

During certain youth retreats and church events, there would be times of testimony and confession. But I never had much to say. My story wasn’t anything special: “Born in the Church. Raised in the Church. Kept going to Church. Everything is groovy.” No one even ever offered me drugs, although I was more than prepared to tell them off if they did. No one invited me to wild parties or wanted to sleep with me. Perks of being a nerd, I guess?

Then, it seems to me, within the last two years, God asked Satan, “Have you considered my servant Jake?” and the next thing you know, it’s a modern-day Job. I never got boils, but it still hasn’t been a fun time for me. At all.

I lost my job just when I was beginning to find real meaning in it. Then my new job, though at times fulfilling, pushed me to a mental breaking point. A woman who publicly committed to be with me said she never actually loved me. People I called family and friends chose to make their exit. Then, like the punchline of a sick joke, it all culminated in my dad’s unexpected death. There were moments when I lost my faith. And along the way, through all this, I lost my purpose in life and my hallmark trait of annoying optimism.

It’s as if everything and everyone I loved in the last couple of years left me, either intentionally or not. I feel like a husk: empty, broken, useless. I’ve described to many that I share a kinship with Sysiphus, the Greek tyrant condemned to roll a rock up a hill only to watch it roll back down and have to push it up again. My life has similarly felt so pointless—I am one of the aimless dreary shades of the Underworld.

Now I know what they meant by holiday grief. I get it. I feel it. I live it.

Every single day since Thanksgiving, I’ve cried, mostly about my dad. Just when I thought I was in the latter stages of grief, “moving on” with a new normal, the floodgates opened on Thanksgiving morning as I ran a 5k Turkey Trot, which my dad had promised to run with me this year. Then each day since, there’s been something new—something that reminds me of him, something I want to ask him, something I want to share with him.

Ah, this is that Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) they talked about.

There’s something about this holiday season that makes it painfully obvious who isn’t here. Joy feels like a distant dream; peace, a desert mirage; happiness, a fantasy from a children’s book.

What I loathe most about holiday grief is how aware I am of it warping my mind in dangerous and arguably sinful ways. I know how anger swells in my heart, caused by jealousy of seeing two people happy together, when that happiness was robbed from me. I hate how it frustrates me that people can "move on" after tragedy when my own tragedy robs me of sleep, joy, and hope. I despise how, in my depressed state, I compromise on my self-worth just to find a sliver of bliss.

Yet, these feelings still surface, and I often feel too weak to combat them with basic logic.

But don’t forget: I’m a solution-oriented guy. As I observe my own grief, I write to express what I feel inside, but also as a way to explore answers. Just like I find it easier to work out in public with a scheduled class than by myself whenever I feel like it, I like to “work things out” in public to keep myself accountable and garner feedback from others. So, I do not leave this sad state of life without proposing a next step. How does one get through the holidays?

Watching A Charlie Brown Christmas recently, I noted that Lucy, with her 5-cent psychiatric help, advised Charlie Brown to combat his seasonal depression with a single word: Involvement. Charlie Brown is then urged to direct the Christmas play, which is an organizational disaster that ultimately doesn’t do what it was supposed to do. Lucy’s original suggestion to get involved mirrors closely what I see as common advice in my generation, though a more appropriate name may be: Distraction.

When tragedy strikes, when you start to be unhappy, when things get hard—go have fun! So says pop psychology and your friend from college who seemingly has no responsibilities in life. Treat yo' self. YOLO! Self-medicate with sex and alcohol, anything to not have to feel the void inside. Parade yourself around apps so people call you pretty. Get involved with every social event on the calendar so you never have to sit alone and face reality. If we are distracted, no need to feel the pain.

But not only is that easier said than done, anyone with more training than your favorite TikTok star realizes that advice isn’t helpful. Even if it works, it’s a short-term bandaid, not a major surgery to fix the problem long-term. My therapist did, for a time, recommend having some fun and getting a bit distracted when the emotions were extra heavy—anything short of narcotics that also doesn’t break the Ten Commandments is basically fair game. But this is never to be done in place of healing, just in addition to.

Besides, if involvement and distraction were really all they were cracked up to be, then holiday grief wouldn’t exist. If there were ever a time to quiet the demons, it would be Christmas time when there are a thousand things to do and plenty of flashy objects to distract you. Busyness is not the cure. And, I’m sad to say, neither is material stuff—no matter that getting gifts is totally my love language.

The path forward, as far as I can tell, isn’t quite a solution. But there is one single thought that keeps me going no matter how much darkness envelops me. Despite all the loss I’ve experienced through people willingly and unwillingly moving on from me, I’m reminded that there are still plenty of people who have chosen to remain in my life and demonstrate Christ-like love.

Luckily, I’m not wrestling with all this alone. It may be more accurate to say my family is having its own “Job moment”—I’m not necessarily the main character. Last year, I picked up a therapist to tell me when I’m crazy and when I’m not. There’s also the undeniable multitudes who have stepped up during my and my family’s time of need.

Even though I can’t seem to quite muster up “joy,” I am nonetheless comforted by the fact that there ARE people in the world who love me. The amount of people who showed up for my dad’s funeral or watched online continues to astound me. Even my own boss, who didn’t know my dad, showed up at the funeral. People in my life, who only knew me, came out to show support or send cards or donate to Camp Yamhil in my dad’s name. Our old congregation back in another state sent us a quilt signed by the church with encouraging messages and seeing it still tugs at my heartstrings.

Despite all I’ve lost, I find hope in all who have stayed.

When I don’t feel like God is close to me during this dark season, I feel the touch of God in an encouraging side hug, in a kind note, in a spontaneous text, and in a shared tear. Every time it’s hard for me to see the light at the end of the tunnel, I can lean on those who do, indeed, know where the exit is. There’s so much power in statements like “I’m here when you need it” and “This really sucks” and “Let’s get lunch.” There is good in the world, even when my heart wants to say there isn’t. I thank God for the people around me who are my beacons of hope and strength when I can’t stand.

There isn’t a solution—not one that I can tell. But, in observing my grief, the only silver lining I seem to be able to make out is that I’ve gotten the chance to see the Church be the Church and for all kinds of people (atheists and Christians, conservatives and progressives, spiritual and not spiritual, and everyone in between) to show that Jesus does in fact work in the world!

I pray that if you find yourself like a zombie wandering in a barren wasteland, experiencing this holiday grief, you have people who step up when needed. Do not forget these names. They may be the only thing stopping you from infinitely spiraling into despair.

I will never forget the people who were there. Because in them, I see that God does work miracles in this sinful, chaotic, cursed universe. When my own strength fails, I just remember how beautiful it is that there are good people in the world who want to help. And though it doesn’t erase all the pain, I know that fact will get me through this tough holiday.

This season, I pray you find the “happy” in Happy Holidays and the “merry” in Merry Christmas. I’m still looking for those, but the more I dwell on the amazing people in my life, the more I find my spirit brightening.