The Season That Holds A Lot

December has always had a way of opening the heart in more directions than one. It arrives with its colourful lights and familiar songs and all the markers that tell us we “should” be settling into comfort, and yet for so many of us, this month holds far more than the outside world ever sees.

There is joy, yes.

There is warmth.

But there are also memories that rise without warning, sadness that lives beneath the surface, and reminders of the people who shaped us. It’s never just one thing. It’s everything all at once.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the first Christmas after my dad left us, not because I’m trying to go looking for grief, but because certain seasons pull old stories forward whether we invite them or not. We had just moved to a new town, into a new home, a new version of life that didn’t fit comfortably quite yet. It was just three of us that year, and the day unfolded gently but noticeably differently than anything we’d experienced in the past.

There were no big family gatherings, no voices overlapping in the kitchen, no tables overflowing with food or friends or relatives or noise. For the first time, Christmas felt still. Almost too still.

I remember waking up that morning and knowing, before my feet even touched the floor, that the day would carry both love and loss in the same breath. Not in a dramatic way, not in a way that would knock me down, but in that quiet, unmistakable way grief weaves itself into the background of new chapters.

It wasn’t a terrible Christmas. It wasn’t even a sad one from start to finish. It was simply a different shape than I was used to. And inside that difference, my heart discovered how layered this season can truly be.

It taught me that joy doesn’t disappear when grief is present, and grief doesn’t vanish simply because joy finds a way in. They move together more often than we admit. They sit side by side at the table. They both have a place.

And every year since, December has carried that same mix of softness and ache. I know many of you feel this too.

Maybe you’re navigating your first holiday without someone you love.

Maybe you’re far from your own family this year.

Maybe you’re trying to create meaningful moments inside a life that currently feels stretched just a little too thin.

Maybe you’re carrying a lot silently while still trying to show up for the people around you.

Whatever your experience is, I want to say this clearly:

• You don’t have to fit yourself into the version of the holidays the world expects.

• You don’t have to be cheerful every day.

• You don’t have to hide the tenderness in your chest to make the season easier for others.

• You don’t have to pretend.

• Your heart is allowed to be exactly what it is.

And within the weight of it all, joy still finds us in the smallest, most unexpected ways. For me, it comes through morning sunlight on the floor, the warmth of a cuppa in my hands, a walk by the water when my nervous system feels frayed, the sound of my singing bowls, or the feeling of pausing for even half a breath. These moments don’t erase anything. They simply widen the space inside me so everything doesn’t feel so pressed up against the edges.

That’s the thing about being human during the holidays. We are all holding so much more than what we show.

There is nothing wrong with you if this season feels heavy.

There is nothing wrong with you if you find pockets of happiness.

There is nothing wrong with you if you’re crying in the morning and laughing in the afternoon.

If the holidays feel different this year, I hope you offer yourself a little more compassion. Slow down where you can. Honour the people you miss in the ways that make sense to you. Stay close to what grounds you. Let joy in when it knocks. Let grief sit beside you without shame. Let your body move at a pace that feels safe for you.

You don’t need to perform a version of yourself that isn’t real.

You don’t need to pretend you’re somewhere emotionally that you’re not.

You don’t need to meet the season on anyone’s terms but your own.

If no one has told you yet, you are doing the best you can inside a month that holds more than most people talk about. You are allowed to feel everything. You are allowed to be gentle with yourself. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to experience this season in a way that honours your truth.

If this season feels heavy and you’re longing for a gentler space to land, the Inner Peace Club is always open. It’s where I keep the practices, rituals, and soft grounding moments that support me through months just like this.

I’ve left a light on for you.

Shannan