A Week Before Christmas: Sitting With Grief Instead of Running From It

A week before Christmas, I found myself sitting on the couch, Home Alone playing softly in the background. The house was quiet in that particular way it only gets at night—windows open, cool Florida air moving through the rooms, dogs curled nearby, the world slowed down just enough to feel.

And then it hit me.

Grief.

Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just present. Heavy. Honest.

I really miss my mom.

There was a specific kind of connection we had imperfect, complicated, deeply human that doesn’t disappear just because someone is gone. It lives in moments like this. In the quiet. In memories. In the way certain holidays carry more emotional weight than others.

Christmas has always been one of those times.

Earlier today, the grief surfaced unexpectedly. Pain came with it. Sadness. That ache of knowing she’s not here and never will be again in the way she once was. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t try to reframe it. I didn’t distract myself or rush to “be positive.”

I leaned in.

I felt what needed to be felt. I let it move through me. I expressed it. And then I reminded myself of something important: I am still in the process of saying goodbye.

That matters.

Because grief isn’t an event. It’s a relationship. One that changes over time.

And for someone who lost their mother this year after years of watching her slowly disappear through Parkinson’s and dementia I’m doing pretty damn well. I’m present most days. My work is improving. I’m showing up. I’m following through more than I was when everything felt impossible.

There was a time not long ago when even basic commitments felt heavy. It was hard enough watching someone you love fade away. Hard enough carrying anticipatory grief while trying to function. I wasn’t failing I was surviving.

And survival deserves compassion.

As I sat there, I started thinking about a Christmas years ago one that lives clearly in my memory. It was the year I moved back to Orlando and made a conscious decision to take the holiday seriously. Not performatively. Intentionally.

I wanted to create something meaningful.

That year, I dressed up as Santa Claus. Not casually—fully committed. I worked hard to make it special. I wanted to create a memory everyone could hold onto. I wanted joy in the room. Presence. Connection.

And I didn’t leave it to chance.

I set the pace.

I enrolled everyone in a vision. I told people exactly what I wanted to experience. I asked very clearly that we protect it. One by one, I spoke to each person and shared what mattered to me. Not from control, but from care.

By the time everyone arrived, music was playing. The woman I was dating at the time showed up dressed for the occasion. We were all in. All present. All participating.

And my mom was happy.

She told me it was one of the best Christmases she’d had in years.

That moment lives in my memory bank for a reason. It wasn’t a holiday defined by tension, avoidance, or ego. I didn’t push her away. I didn’t sabotage the room with unresolved resentment or emotional shutdown. Instead, I chose something else.

I chose to lead with intention.

I chose connection.

Growing up, my mom’s drug addiction got in the way of almost everything. Holidays were unpredictable. Relationships were complicated. Love existed, but it didn’t always feel safe or consistent.

That’s why that Christmas mattered so much.

It showed me what was possible when I stayed present, when I led with values instead of wounds. It gave me a memory rooted in wholeness instead of regret.

And now, years later, that memory matters even more.

Tonight doesn’t feel like the most “Christmasy” Christmas. There’s no big gathering. No elaborate plans. But there is intention.

I wanted to feel more of the holiday spirit, so I met myself where I was. I put on Home Alone. Then Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I made cauliflower crust pizza. I let it become a quiet little marathon. I turned on music afterward. I enjoyed the evening for what it was.

I’m house-sitting for a friend, and the dogs here have been good medicine. There’s something grounding about talking to animals, sharing space with them, letting their calm presence regulate your nervous system. The windows are open. The breeze is perfect. Florida’s best-kept secret is this time of year, and tonight I’m letting myself enjoy it.

This is what values look like in real time.

Being present to the moment instead of wishing it were different. Harmonizing with what’s actually happening rather than fighting reality. Choosing experiences that nourish instead of numb.

And when my mind starts telling stories that don’t serve me stories of guilt, regret, or self-judgment I stop. I remind myself that those narratives don’t help. They don’t honor my mother. They don’t support my healing.

So I knock it off.

That doesn’t mean I bypass pain. It means I don’t build a home inside it.

Grief deserves space but not the steering wheel.

This is something I’ve learned slowly, imperfectly, and honestly. Completion doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean pretending everything was perfect. It means allowing the full truth to exist love, pain, joy, mistakes without letting any single part define the whole story.

That’s what No Unfinished Business is really about.

Not fixing grief. Not rushing healing. Not forcing closure.

But helping people stay present with what matters while there’s still time and learning how to live fully even after loss.

Tonight, I’m not running from the sadness. I’m also not letting it steal the evening. I’m choosing compassion. Gratitude. Simplicity.

And that’s enough.

For now.