I used to love fall. The crisp mornings, the colours, the sweaters. But in 2006, when I was 28, I lost my dad to liver cancer at the end of August, and then my mom died just 6 weeks later to symptoms resulting from a long struggle with Multiple Sclerosis. As much as I want to lean into the changing of the seasons and embrace the onset of the holiday time, my bones still know it as a season of grief. 
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Losing my parents at such a young age was incredibly disorienting. I also lost my only sister to childhood leukemia when we were both teenagers. Western culture puts an emphasis on “moving on,” and I thought I could simply “begin again,” forget the past, and focus on the future. Shortly after my parents’ passing, I got married, and a couple of years later began having children. I kept telling myself that I was “fine” even though grief hung from my skin like invisible weights, like a heavy backpack I could never put down. 

The fall and winter holiday season have always felt particularly rife with grief triggers. A time once filled with family gathering, gift giving, and general mirth and merriment, felt so empty and sad. Spending time with my husband's family, who are delightful and loving humans, only served as a reminder of all of the people I was missing. Their shared stories, their family lore, simply didn’t include me. My past had disappeared. 

Make no mistake, I’m not writing this to tell you that it has gotten easier.

Make no mistake, I’m not writing this to tell you that it has gotten easier. The old adage “time heals all wounds” isn’t true. I’m sorry to break it to you. Eighteen years after losing my parents, I still unpack the Christmas tree ornaments with a lump in my throat. But in those eighteen years, I have learned a few tips and tricks for surviving and maybe even thriving in this delicate season. 

First, I have given myself permission to feel sadness and joy at the same time. I cannot resolve my feelings of immense loss. Those feelings will always sting. Where there was great love, there is great loss. But I can feel this ache alongside the joy of making new memories to carry into the future. I can try to build bridges between my family of origin and the family I have made. This isn’t always easy. In many cases, I am the sole bearer of my own family lore. Sometimes I choke on the words of the stories before they make it past my lips. But I know that if I don’t keep my family alive for my children, no one else will. 

If you need to lock yourself in your bedroom with a bag of chips and a glass of wine and watch Little Women on your phone, that is perfectly fine.

Next, stepping away when you need to is permitted and should be encouraged. If you need to lock yourself in your bedroom with a bag of chips and a glass of wine and watch Little Women on your phone, that is perfectly fine (the sisterly connections in that film just break my heart in two). Making physical space for your sadness is so important. And, on the other hand, I’ve learned that it’s okay to let my kids see me cry. We can’t break the cultural pattern of ignoring our emotions simply by talking about it. We need to model it. 

‍Creating new rituals can be very healing. When I was growing up, death wasn’t really something we talked a lot about. Even after my sister died, the language used was “she’s gone from the earth” and “in a better place.” Her name was only mentioned accidentally. Now, I have started to embrace days of remembrance that commemorate death and grief. I sometimes bake cakes on my family member’s birthdays. This year, I am planning a Day of the Dead potluck gathering for myself and other friends who have lost loved ones'. Our theme this year is “hotdishes and other comfort food.” I plan to make tuna-noodle casserole, a staple in my home growing up. In past years, we have assembled a playlist of favourite songs, brought our loved ones favourite drinks, set out an altar where we could bring photos and mementos. I also light a big bonfire so we can write messages to our loved ones on paper and send them up into the air as smoke and prayers. The mood is not sombre, but it is sacred. 

Much of my grief stems from wanting everything to stay the same, and knowing things will never be the same.

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‍Abandoning rituals that no longer bring joy is also okay. Much of my grief stems from wanting everything to stay the same, and knowing things will never be the same. This quote by Octavia Butler has offered surprising condolence to me: 

“All that you touch
You Change.

All that you Change
Changes you.

The only lasting truth
is Change.

God
is Change.”

This rubs against the phrase I was taught in my youth that God is the same “yesterday, today and forever.” But what I’ve learned is that the Divine lives in the unknown. Faith thrives not where there is certainty and rigidity, but where there is mystery and hope. I’m trying to lean into this liminal space. 

We converted the adjacent horseshoe pit into a place for lighting candles, and invited people to use the three R’s commonly used for walking a labyrinth: release, receive, return.

Last year, instead of gathering on the Day of the Dead, we hosted a gathering on the longest night, marked on the calendar by the winter solstice. I laugh at remembering once in my twenties wishing my dad a “happy solstice,” and his response was, “I don’t celebrate those pagan holidays!” Pagan or not, I’m finding so much grounding in more earth-based spiritual practices. A friend hosted a gathering last Halloween Eve where we walked a labyrinth and howled at the moon. The whole experience gave me such a feeling of groundedness and connection to the earth and to the other people I was with, most of whom were strangers. I wanted to create a similar ritual for the longest night. Coincidentally, I had a friend who had started to build labyrinths and was eager to help me construct a temporary labyrinth of lights in my own yard. Unlike the Day of the Dead gatherings, where I invite people who I know have lost loved ones, for the winter solstice I invited everyone. I knew that the ritualistic part of the evening would be lost on some, but hoped it would feel like a balm to others. We converted the adjacent horseshoe pit into a place for lighting candles, and invited people to use the three R’s commonly used for walking a labyrinth: release, receive, return. A labyrinth is distinct from a maze in that there is only one path that leads to the middle, the centre point where you turn and walk a new path out. 
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For me, the intentions of the walk that evening felt something like this: I release the expectation of ever feeling healed from the pain of losing my family. I receive the love and gifts these losses have allowed me to feel. I return to my life in their absence, bringing the light of hope to others who are also feeling deep loss, knowing that in community, we are healed. 

‍Not everyone will understand your pain. My experience with grief has felt a bit like becoming a parent. Before you become a parent, you have lots of ideas about what kind of parent you’ll be. My kids will never do “x,” I will always be “y,” I can’t imagine doing “z.” And then you become a parent and everything changes. Your kids eat sugar, they play Fortnite, you take them to Disneyland. You don’t know what you don’t know. As the years pass, more and more of my friends are losing parents. People say to me, “I’m so sorry I didn’t understand what you were going through.” And it’s true. You can only imagine it until it happens to you. Before they know better (and sometimes even after), people will say the dumbest things. We are all only human. Try to offer grace, both to them and to yourself. But, you don’t have to feel alone. Feeling alone in my grief has probably been the hardest part. 

So the last piece of advice I have is this: find your people. You will not find someone who is going through the exact thing you are going through. Even people in a family unit who share a loss will grieve in different ways. A friend’s uncle just passed away, and on his deathbed, his sister leaned over and said, “I still have some issues with you,” and laughed. The rest of the people in the room were horrified. Of course, she was joking (probably, mostly), but we all deal with grief in our own ways. There is no right way, no sequential stages, no “how-to” guide, no pill to take. I have found the most profound healing experiences in the presence of other grievers. There is a lightness that comes when we carry one another's burdens, even if for a moment. 

If creating a ritual for others feels daunting to you, I get it. I don’t do it with any great regularity. You can start small. Light a candle. Take out a picture of your loved one. Bake your grandma’s famous shortbread cookies. Tell your kids a story about your loved ones. Say their names out loud. The more you do it, the easier it gets. I promise. 

Death is a common denominator of all human experiences. No one gets out of here alive. Not talking about death only makes it more difficult when you are faced with its reality.

Death is a common denominator of all human experiences. No one gets out of here alive. Not talking about death only makes it more difficult when you are faced with its reality. Without death, we can’t truly live into the beauty of life. I think about death every day. I’m not exaggerating. And I won’t lie, sometimes it’s a drag (I like this life!), but I try to turn it into an opportunity to live more fully. To take life by the throat, do the thing (cold plunges!), love with all of your heart. This moment is the only one we have, and in this moment, you are alive. Let’s celebrate!