Widow Life: The Distance Found in the Holiday Mist of Cheer.

For the widow who feels flat, forgotten, or unsure if she still belongs.

If you’re reading this, I want you to know something from the start—you’re not ALONE.

There is a distance that can settle in this time of year. You can feel it before you can give it words—somewhere between the first Christmas commercial and the neighbor hanging lights. The whole world shifts into a season of wonder and expectation, and somehow, it creates a widening gap between you and everyone else.

The holidays permeate everything with “magic” and “joy.”

And grief—your grief—seems to move in the opposite direction. Holiday grief hits in ways you can’t prepare for. Christmas grief has its own weight, its own sting, its own silence.

It leaves you feeling isolated. Detached. And if you’re anything like me… sometimes flat.

Not bubbling over with emotion. Not tender and sentimental. Just… less. Less feeling, not more. Less capacity, not more. Less sparkle, less warmth, less of whatever you think you “should” be bringing to this season.

In a world shouting MORE—more family, more events, more decorating, more expectations, more giving, more love on display—you become painfully aware that you have MUCH less to offer. And it makes you start to wonder if you’re even wanted as you currently are.

And if any of this is describing you, breathe. You are not the only widow feeling this way during the holidays. This season awakens a specific kind of ache that deserves to be named, understood, and honored—not hidden.

Because here’s the truth many widows silently carry: for the first time, you wonder if you even belong in your own family anymore. Nothing fits the way it used to. Nothing feels familiar. Part of you is missing, and the part of you that balanced the whole room isn’t there anymore.

Grief has a way of making you feel like you’ve slipped outside the frame of your own life. You watch everyone else move forward while you’re learning how to live with a permanent tear in the fabric of your world. And I know how lonely that place can feel.

So let me say some of the things you may not have words for yet—things widows often feel but rarely speak.

Five Real Thoughts Widows Carry About Not Fitting Anymore

Being a widow brings a lot of thoughts and feelings with it. Navigating the truth and the holidays is possible.

1. “I feel like the heavy one now.”
   Like your presence shifts the room and everyone can feel the ache you try so hard to tuck away.

2. “I worry I suck the joy out of everything.”
   You don’t want to. You don’t mean to. But you see the energy change and you blame yourself.

3. “I’m not the same without him… and I don’t know who I am now.”
   He was your balance, your grounding, your mirror. Without him, everything feels off-center.

4. “I don’t feel like I fit in my own family anymore.”
   Not because they’ve rejected you—but because the dynamic changed when half of you went missing.

5. “I feel too much and not enough at the exact same time.”
   Too emotional. Too quiet. Too exhausted. Not joyful enough. Not okay enough. Just… wrong somehow.

If any of that sounds like you, friend… I see you. Truly.

And here is what I need you to hear with your whole heart: none of these thoughts make you weak. None of these feelings make you a burden. They make you human. They make you real. They make you a woman who loved deeply and lost profoundly.

But hear me: that tear in your life doesn’t disqualify you from love.
It doesn’t exile you from your future story.
It doesn’t erase your place at the table.

You’re still here.
And your presence still carries weight—sacred weight the world doesn’t always understand.

Because the way you hold love and loss at the same time?
That is holy ground.

You may feel on the outside looking in, unsure where you fit or how to step into spaces you once entered so naturally. But you are not lost. You are not forgotten. You are not too broken to belong.

You don’t have to perform your way back into the room.
You don’t have to decorate the ache.
You don’t have to twist yourself into something lighter or easier.

Honesty is enough.
Your presence—even tired, quiet, or undone—is enough.

You belong. You are still breathing, still loving, still showing up inside a life you never asked for. That is not weakness. That is sacred strength.

And even if this season feels fractured and unfamiliar, there is still room for you—your truth, your sorrow, your tenderness, your whole story—right here, right now.

Just as you are. Always.

Five Ideas for Navigating the Holidays When You’re Grieving

If you’re looking for ways to move through the next few weeks with honesty, meaning, and supportive connection, here are five quiet and doable ideas. They don’t require you to pretend or perform. They don’t require energy you don’t have. They’re simply small invitations toward real and raw comfort and safety.

1. Choose one friend from your Circle of Support and ask for a moment for real talk.
   Maybe just one true sentence: “This is how I’m doing / feeling today.” Ask if they’d sit with you for a moment this week. No fixing. No pressure. Just presence. Sometimes being witnessed is the deepest relief.

2. Create a small, meaningful ritual at home—just for you.
   Light a candle. Say his name. Whisper a memory. Invite Jesus into the quiet. Even two minutes of time like this can soften the deep ache enough to release some grief tension and keep you going.

3. Give yourself an “opt-in” holiday moment.
   Skip the big gatherings if you need to. Choose something small—a drive to see lights, a warm drink with someone safe, a slow walk. Give yourself permission to leave early or change your mind if your heart shifts.

4. Release your mental load onto paper.
   Your brain is carrying silent weight. Write down every worry, fear, and trigger. This helps both sides of your brain to work together and process more fully. Let it become your prayer: “Jesus, be here with me.” - maybe you want to hold it with care in your journal or maybe you want to toss it in the fire and release it.

5. Create meaning, not performance.
   You don’t need a whole tree or a whole house decorated. Choose one grounding thing: a single ornament that represents something meaningful, a Scripture, a song, a cup of hot chocolate. Meaning does not require intensity. Sometimes sitting in softness is the bravest choice you can make.

Know this, I am praying for you. Wherever you are, whatever you are feeling: hope-filled, weary, nervous, numb… begin by recognizing it. Allow it to be recognized and respected. Grief is hard. Carrying love and loss is hard. Take small steps of bravery to allow your natural process. I know God is with you in this chapter and the ones yet to come. He is writing something beautiful now, and in the days ahead.

Sending you so much love,

Kimber

If you’re navigating grief during the holidays, especially as a widow or someone who has lost a spouse, you’re not alone. Many women experience a deep sense of loneliness, disorientation, and not belonging during Christmas and the winter season. This post offers honest support for holiday grief, Christmas sadness, widowhood, and the quiet ache that shows up when family gatherings and traditions look different after loss. If you’re looking for help with feeling out of place, grieving at Christmas, missing your person, or finding gentle ways to care for yourself during the holidays, you’ll find guidance, grounding practices, and compassionate encouragement here. These reflections are written for widows, grievers, and anyone carrying loss into December—offering language, validation, and hope for the season you’re in.

5 tips for Gripping Hope through the Holidays: dealing with Grief + Emotions

She sat there, or was trying to. Even the task of sitting brought discomfort. It required stillness, and stillness allowed for ALL of the emotions to be felt. If only she could just keep doing, moving, planning….

but she was exhausted. All of her attempts at grief escape had left her depleted. Her mind + body needed rest but the physical and mental exhaust had only dropped the defensive walls down to the surface of the grief flood waters, they were brimming, beginning to splash over a little. How might she avoid the onrushing waves that were certain to crash in soon? Oh, please, not now….

She was tired. Too tired for the heavy weep of sorrow. Oh, so tired… but oh so unsettled. Letting the grief flow freely was still so difficult, so painful.

But so was avoiding it, just a different kind of steady pain that she barely recognized was happening. Recognized or not, it was crippling her. It was taking her out, little by little, day by day. She had to find a way…

And so she did, and she still does. Because grief is certain to come and go.

But now, most of the time, she knows when to welcome it, and how she can do that best.

Let’s see if some of the tips in the slide show above help you. I tried to think of some of the biggest issues I have faced coping with grief during the holidays. It’s challenging, I won’t lie. But, we do have options that can help us manage better, help us find our way through it with a little more ease. It isn’t easy but it feels better after we do it. Honest!

I created a mini-book for you to help to move through the holidays. It has more detailed information and access to some of what I use regularly in my Grief Toolbox. You can click the link HERE for my HOPE for the Grieving Heart Mini-Book. It is only $6.95, up for a very limited time at just a fraction of the cost that my physical book will be. So grab it while you can!

A cancer widow's tale: When words fall short but LOVE doesn't.

Lament, sorrow, pain. Sometimes we allow ourselves to go there, sit there, feel it. Other times it presses in like a vice grip on our brains. Yesterday, was a vice grip day as I was standing in the kitchen. My mind uncontrollably reeling, revisiting all kinds of thoughts. Honestly, considering conversations that never were. A new reality of deep grief was forming due to a lack of conversation.

Why didn't Dave talk to me about it?

Why didn't he give me advice, permission, his wishes, and why didn't he give me a goodbye letter. He gave each of our kids one. Why not me? 

And as for me....

Why didn't I scream at cancer in his face?

Why didn't I cry out in front of him that I didn't want him to leave me?

Why didn't I beg for him to tell me everything my ears and heart so badly wanted to hear from him? WHY????? 

I was asking God this yesterday in my extremely vulnerable state. I had been on the verge of tears (or full-out bawling) the entire day. 

As I was standing in the kitchen facing the cupboards, for who knows how long, mind sloshing away in the grief sludge. Why?   … and God, clear as DAY, told me "That was you LOVING HIM WELL. That was you loving him in the most sacrificial form there is."  You see, I needed SO MUCH MORE. I needed words, I needed to hear his heart for me. I needed him to tell me I was going to be okay. I needed him to tell me everything he wanted me to do and to say with the kids from here on out. I got none of it, not one word. What I did get was a simple look of content, over + over again.

Decades of marriage with him proved I could easily have forced him to talk to me.... so why didn't I? Why did I sit there in a state of quiet and calm when in truth I so desperately longed for words. Because I LOVED HIM so DESPERATELY. I didn't press or demand... I sat in his process with him. I allowed him to do it his way. No, WE did it his way together. I followed his lead, and he held tight to his HOPE. 

So many tell me they can't believe the tremendous faith we had through it all. Yes, we did. But I think perhaps they are confusing what they witnessed as faith when in reality a lot of it was Dave’s positive mindset, and perhaps even a touch of denial. They think because we didn't post about the struggle, fears, and appearance of a gloomy outcome that we believed 100% he would be healed. I don't think any of us stood on that ground, but hope was always on the fringes. My husband was few on words but the ones he did choose to speak were full of life, hope, and days to come. Any others were unspoken.

Everything in my nature would have screamed for answers, and real talk, but somehow in the thick of our 14 month long chaos of chemo, radiation and unsuccessful bone marrow transplant, God gave me a supernatural ability to die to self. I am so grateful for that now. We did did it our way, we did our best, we loved well. Sometimes love looks like action, and sometimes love looks like quiet. Real words may have fallen short but love was more than evident in the chosen QUIET. 

When words fall short but LOVE doesn’t.

Trauma Permanently Changes Us

Trauma. It wasn’t a word I would have thought I would be using with such a common type of death as cancer. However, when you sit with your person, and go through the treatments, and watch them suffer, and eventually die… well, it is indeed traumatic.

As the days go by, and some of the memories choose to resurface, you know… the kind where you are back in that room again, with all the sights, sounds and smells. It is then that your heart begins to race, and your eyes leak at the gut punch of reality. Your brain wants to turn it off quickly while clinging to it at the same time. This is because for a brief moment your mind would almost choose to be there (even knowing the outcome) versus sitting in this empty void you have been left with. The uncomfortable space between yes, this is my new reality and no, I don’t want to do this. I am sitting here telling you no one wants to do this.

The gut punch ache never leaves, even though your brain is doing a pretty thorough job of trying to protect your shattered heart. But when the brain is triggered by God to let the walls drop a little… “It’s okay, she can handle that memory, drop that wall, let her remember.” And BAM it unexpectedly slaps you awake… it is right here in this space that you are beyond aware you, no doubt, have experienced trauma.

A lot of times I find myself wondering if I will ever be the same, and I have come to the conclusion that, no, no I won’t. Will I still have joy, yes. Will I continue to have moments where I laugh until I snort at the silliest of things? Yes. Will I be able to go a week without bawling? Maybe? Will life go on and will new life experiences be fulfilling. For sure. But still…

I found a lot of comfort in this article that I found by Catherine Woodiwiss: A New Normal: Ten Things I’ve Learned About Trauma. Here is an excerpt:

This is the big, scary truth about trauma:
there is no such thing as “getting over it.”
The five stages of grief model marks
universal stages in learning to accept loss,
but the reality is in fact much bigger:
a major life disruption leaves a new normal
in its wake. There is no “back to the old me.”
You are different now, full stop.

This is not a wholly negative thing.
Healing from trauma can also mean
finding new strength and joy.
The goal of healing is not a papering-over
of changes in an effort to preserve or
present things as normal. It is to acknowledge
and wear your new life — warts, wisdom and
all — with courage.

– Catherine Woodiwiss

I am different now. If you have experienced trauma, you are different now. It is okay. Don’t try to hurry your way back to an old state of norm to please the people around you. It won’t happen. Give yourself the gift of grace and patience as you discover your new life, day by day.

Cheers my friend, here is to a new life with warts, wisdom and all.

Be Well-