When Holidays Hurt: Grief, Faith, and the Life We’re Still Living
December has a way of magnifying everything.
Joy feels louder. Absence feels sharper. And grief, somehow, takes up more room than it already does.
This December, I am carrying fresh grief.
On November 13th, my sister Donna passed away.
Even as I write those words, my heart is still catching up to their meaning. The holidays arrived almost immediately afterward, leaving little space to process what it means to move through this season without her. Her absence now sits beside the familiar ache of missing Mark layered grief, meeting me again in a month that already knows how to hurt.
November held many things at once.
In the midst of loss, I was honored with an honorary doctorate a moment that brought humility and clarity rather than celebration. The recognition did not erase grief, but it affirmed calling. It widened the lane for the work I am doing and deepened my responsibility to show up with care.
The night before that ceremony, I was involved in a car accident. Someone rear-ended us, leaving me shaken and in pain. The next day, I stood and gave the speech anyway not because it was easy, but because some moments ask us to show up while we are still hurting.
That, too, is grief work.
November also held something profoundly sacred: The Real Widowhood Weekend in Atlanta.
Women arrived carrying stories they had rarely spoken out loud. They trusted the space. They trusted the process. They trusted me and that kind of trust humbles me every time.
This weekend was not carried by me alone.
My sister Denise traveled to Atlanta to help, offering steady presence and practical support when it mattered most. Sylvia’s attentional to detail and event‑planning skills ensured every element felt thoughtful and cared for. And Addie’s breathwork and yoga created moments of grounding and reflection space for bodies and hearts to soften and settle.
I watched widows exhale. Laugh. Cry. And recognize themselves in one another.
Several women later shared reflections that I hold with reverence describing the weekend as unexpectedly healing, deeply supportive, and something they felt changed how they carried their grief.
Over the years, much of this listening has happened through Widowhood Real Talk with Tina through hundreds of recorded conversations, quiet podcast episodes, live discussions, support groups, and shared spaces where grief is spoken honestly and without rush. Long before this book had a name, these voices were already shaping it.
I believe in God.
But my work has never been about leading with language or announcements. It has been about walking in love creating space, holding presence, and showing up consistently. Love, when it is lived well, speaks for itself.
As December begins, I am already holding plans for the 2026 Real Widowhood Weekend in Virginia Beach, Virginia even as I continue to tend to what was planted in Atlanta. This work doesn’t pause neatly between seasons. It overlaps. It unfolds while life keeps happening.
December has also reminded me of quieter ways grief changes us.
Earlier this month, a friend hosted a bonfire. I hadn’t been to one since leaving Pennsylvania, where our family once gathered each November around a fire. That night, I wore Mark’s jacket and his sweater. I stood still, watching the flames, thinking of him, our family, and the memories held there.
I went with my sister Ulanka and my mom, Addie, who is also a widow. For a while, words weren’t necessary. The fire held enough.
I’ve also come to accept that I don’t decorate for Christmas the way I once did. The inspiration simply isn’t there right now and that’s okay. I am not broken. I am not unhappy. I have a life I am grateful for.
This is just one of the ways grief has reshaped me.
It may change again. Or it may not.
For now, this is where I am.
December may hurt.
And December can also hold joy.
Thanksgiving brought a gentle reminder of that. My brother Jesse came to visit, and we spent the holiday together with Fred, his two sons, and my son Alexander. We even took holiday pajama photos the kind that feel ordinary until you realize how precious they are.
There was laughter. Ease. A sense of belonging. We shared Thanksgiving with Fred’s family, and the day held warmth without requiring anything from me but presence.
Joy did not erase grief. But it existed alongside it.
And that mattered.
But you are allowed to move through it gently. At your own pace. With honesty. And with grace.
If this reflection meets you where you are, you’re welcome to pull up a chair and sit with me here. New reflections arrive quietly, when there’s something meaningful to share.
Dr. Tina Fornwald