For many, Christmas is a time of togetherness, warmth, and joy.
But what happens to the celebration when you are deep in grief?
And how can we, as fellow human beings, support someone who is mourning?
This post offers thoughts and gentle guidance on how to face a holiday touched by loss.
The holidays can be filled with stress, expectations, and pressure — so this is my plea to everyone reading: Be kind to yourself, and to one another. Christmas does not demand perfection, only presence.
And by presence, I don’t mean being physically surrounded by people — but allowing yourself simply to exist, to breathe, to take the day as it comes.
For those who grieve
If you choose to celebrate
Take the day as it comes
If the day arrives and you find that you don’t have the strength for a planned gathering, it’s always okay to cancel.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you’d rather not mention your grief, you can always blame it on the flu.
Have a Plan B, in case it becomes too overwhelming to be around others. Arrange with someone who can drive you home if you don’t have your own car.
Lower your expectations. It’s worth repeating — this is not a day to perform or impress. Simply existing is enough.
Be careful with alcohol. While it can be tempting to numb the pain, it might also give emotions free rein to surface in ways you didn’t intend.
Give your grief space
If it feels comforting or healing, light a candle for the one you miss.
A visit to the cemetery can also be beautiful and soothing amidst sorrow and longing. Don’t hesitate to ask someone to come along if you’d rather not go alone.
Hold a moment of silence for the person who has passed. Even if it’s just you, or a small part of the gathering, find a quiet corner and offer them a thought.
Give absence a place at the table — literally. Setting a place for someone who can’t be there can be a deeply symbolic act. It might be for someone who’s ill, far away, working, or someone who has died.
Not being present does not mean being forgotten. There is always room for them.
A time for new traditions
Traditions are a big part of Christmas for many, but there’s no right or wrong way to celebrate. If there’s something you’ve wanted to try but never felt you could — why not now?
It can be both healing and freeing to rediscover Christmas with a sense of childlike curiosity and wonder.
Trying something new doesn’t mean abandoning the old. The spirit of Christmas comes from within, no matter how it appears on the outside.
Take a break from grief
Easier said than done — but if you want to, you absolutely may.
You are allowed to have fun. You are allowed to laugh. You are allowed to enjoy yourself.
We can hold two truths at once — laughter doesn’t diminish love or lessen the pain of loss. Sometimes we simply need to breathe before we can face the heavy feelings again.
If you choose not to celebrate
You are not okay — and that’s okay
If the very thought of decorations, food, and gifts feels like twisting a knife in your heart, spare yourself the pain and skip the holidays altogether.
If you’d rather stay in your pajamas, eat pizza, and binge-watch old movies — do so, guilt-free. Just because the calendar says “Christmas” doesn’t mean the days belong to anyone else but you.
Company without the crowds
Not wanting to be around people doesn’t have to mean being alone.
On forums or social media, you can find others in similar situations — people who want connection without the pressure of celebration. You decide whether to chat through text or voice/video calls.
For those who wish to support someone in grief
Let them know they are welcome
When you’re grieving, it’s easy to feel like a grey cloud on someone else’s blue sky — as if you should stay away to not ruin the mood.
That’s why feeling included matters so much.
Invite the person to your holiday gathering and make it clear that it’s perfectly okay to cancel at the last minute. Even if the answer is “No, thank you”, or there’s no reply at all, the invitation itself means a lot.
A tool for checking in
For someone grieving, it can be comforting to have a friend quietly check in from time to time. But putting feelings into words can be hard, especially around others.
You might agree to use a “traffic light” system as code:
🟢 Green — “I’m okay. I’m enjoying myself.”
🟡 Yellow — “It’s hard, but I’m managing.”
🔴 Red — “I need to leave. Now.”
Actions often speak louder than words
It’s not easy to know what to say to someone in mourning. Even a well-meant “Merry Christmas” can feel like a slap in the face.
Sometimes what’s needed isn’t words — just presence.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do” is kind, but asking for help is often impossible when you’re grieving. Try offering something more concrete instead:
“Would you like me to pick up some groceries?”
“I can watch your kids or pets one evening.”
“Want some company? I'd love to come over.”
If celebrating Christmas isn’t an option, but you still want to show care, a basket of kindness can be a thoughtful “not a Christmas present”-gift
Fill it with things that comfort or distract — something to eat (like snacks that don’t need heating), a book, a film, a puzzle, or a craft. Creativity can be deeply soothing when there’s no “right” outcome, like yarn, clay, writing, or painting.
A digital version could include gift cards for games, movies, audiobooks, or streaming services.
Give something you know they’ll appreciate — or surprise them with something more unexpected.
Just like Christmas, grief takes many forms.
Even if you don’t understand someone else’s way of coping, please try to show gentleness and respect.
The way you choose to celebrate — or not celebrate — and the way you grieve is no more right or wrong than mine.
I hope that, despite the darkness, this year’s end brings a few new moments of light and warmth.
How does your own — or someone else’s — grief shape your holiday season?
A short story with Quinley & Herrow
Who are Quinley and Herrow?
In Coffinfolk Café’s stand alone short stories, you’ll meet two most unlikely friends:
Quinley – Coffinfolk’s café host. A young woman who loves life just as much as she loves exploring the cultural heritage of death and sharing advice, information, and insights that can help people – whether they are facing their own encounter with Death or living with grief.
Herrow – Death himself. He may look frightening in his black cloak, but beneath the bones is a kind soul who enjoys a cup of coffee and sharing experiences gathered from every corner of time.
You can find a longer introduction + a short story about their first meeting HERE
“Alone, in Good Company”
Narrated by Quinley
The little bell above the door chimed.
“Goodness, it’s really coming down out there!” The woman stamped the snow from her shoes and shook off her coat. She sniffed the air. “What smells so lovely?”
“Hot chocolate with chili. Harley’s own recipe.” I lifted my cup as she approached the counter where I sat.
“Oh, just what I need.” The woman went over to one of the empty tables while Harley began preparing a cup for her.
I glanced down at my open planner. December 24th — Christmas Eve — still empty. The date seemed to mock me for spending the holiday alone.
I snapped the planner shut as Harley nudged me with his elbow.
“Quinley, want to decorate gingerbread cookies with us?” He was holding a tray of large heart-shaped cookies and icing bags in different colors.
“Maybe in a bit,” I murmured, taking a sip of the warming chocolate.
“Everything alright?”
I looked up at my boss with a smile that probably didn’t reach my eyes and nodded. Harley nodded back and patted my shoulder.
It did look cozy where Harley sat with Herrow and a few of the regulars, decorating and chatting.
Next to the Reaper sat an elderly woman studding oranges with cloves. The scent was wonderful.
The café’s autumn-colored tablecloths and blankets had been replaced with red and green ones, and wreaths of pine hung in the windows. There was a quiet, homely Christmas feeling — none of the stress or noise. My fingers tapped the planner. Christmas. Alone for the first time...
I knew it was only a matter of time before the question came up.
“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” asked the woman holding her steaming cup of chili-spiced chocolate.
Seconds passed in silence. Harley set down his icing bag and came over to refill his teacup.
“I’m celebrating alone — but in good company.” He lifted his cup toward Herrow.
“In the fall of 2015, I lost my aunt, my grandmother, and my grandfather within three weeks. That Christmas it was just me and my husband. We used to celebrate with my aunt and grandma.” Harley leaned on the counter. “After the divorce, I started spending Christmas by myself. We’d talk on the phone a few times that day, so there was still some company, in a way. But… when he passed away in 2023, that was when I was truly on my own.”
“Oh, dear…” The woman pressed a hand to her chest and gave him a sympathetic look.
“It sounds sadder than it was,” Harley said gently. “I’ve never really struggled with loneliness, not even in grief. But of course, it’s different for everyone. Christmas can be a test — in many ways.” He gave me a brief look, and I wondered if he understood more than I’d told him. I’d mentioned that I used to celebrate holidays with close friends who’d since moved abroad, but— The man sitting beside Harley interrupted my thoughts.
“I think I’ll skip Christmas altogether. Without my Martina, there’s no point. It’s nice being here, decorating”—he gestured at the table—“but at home there’s only emptiness. Putting up the decorations just felt like putting lipstick on a pig. A bandage on a bullet wound.”
He fell silent and looked down. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spoil the mood…”
The elderly woman set down her orange and gently took his arm.
“Nonsense. You haven’t spoiled a thing. Here, we’re free to say how we feel. Isn’t that right, Harley?”
“Absolutely. You can laugh, cry, or swear until the wallpaper curls — whatever helps,” Harley said, squeezing my shoulder.
“You should’ve heard him untangling the string lights last night,” chuckled Herrow. “If these walls could talk…” That made us all laugh.
The woman went back to decorating her orange.
“My husband Olof had a heart attack on Christmas Eve. I woke up a happy wife and went to bed a widow — on one of the most beautiful days of the year.”
I followed Harley back to the table.
“How did you… how…?” I couldn’t find the words, but the woman seemed to know what I meant.
“I hated loving Christmas,” she said softly. “It had always been my favorite holiday. When the third Christmas came after Olof’s death, I missed my decorations too much. I dusted off the boxes and unpacked everything. At first, I felt ashamed for feeling joy again. But if Olof could’ve said something, he would’ve chased me around the house for forbidding myself happiness on his account. He loved making me laugh.”
She chuckled and wiped away a tear. Herrow handed her a napkin, which she accepted gratefully. “Christmas doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” she continued. “You find your own way to celebrate — and give your grief the space it needs.”
“Your own way…” Harley gave Herrow a crooked smile, then turned to me. “Quinley, would you do me the honor of celebrating Christmas with me and Herrow here at Coffinfolk? If you don’t already have plans?”
“YES!” I squeezed the icing bag a bit too hard, and my snowman ended up with one enormous eye. Oh well — nobody’s perfect.
Harley laughed and turned to the others.
“You’re all welcome too, if you’d like. The café will be closed to the public, but open to anyone who wants company.”
The guests exchanged glances and nodded — some more eagerly than others.
“Can we make it a potluck? Everyone brings something good to eat or drink?”
“…and it doesn’t have to be traditional Christmas food,” Harley added. “I can even set up the webcam for anyone who’d rather stay home but still wants to join in online.”
“And it should be an unspoken rule that anyone can leave whenever they need to, no explanations required.”
“Oh yes, absolutely,” Harley nodded.
“Do we have to dress up?” asked the woman at the nearby table.
“Come as you are. Comfort is key.”
“If you try to make me dance around the Christmas tree, I’m leaving,” grumbled the man beside Harley. His smile, though, betrayed that he wasn’t all that serious.
“Haha, don’t worry. Everything’s voluntary. If you want to sing and dance, great — if you’d rather sit and read a book, that’s just as fine. This is our Christmas, our rules.”
The lady set down her finished orange among the others she’d made.
“I’ve got some puzzles and board games at home — I can bring them.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” For the first time in what felt like weeks, I truly smiled again.
Something nudged my leg. There was only one person — if you could call him that — who it could be.
I turned to Herrow. He held up his gingerbread cookie, where he’d piped the Coffinfolk logo — the heart whose one curve forms the outline of a coffin. Life and death, love and grief, hand in hand.