Holiday Blues: Navigating Expectations, Trauma, and Disappointment -Rewriting your story, creating new practices of self-care, and curating traditions that honor you

It’s easy to pathologize ourselves this time of year:

“Why am I so down?”“Everyone else seems happy.”“I should be over this by now.”

But holidays can be anniversary dates for a lot of pain:

• The first holiday without someone you love.

• The tenth holiday that still aches.

• The season you finally accepted that reconciliation may never come.

• The year you chose distance from family for your own safety.

Your body remembers what your mind tries to file away. Smells, songs, decorations, certain foods—they can all pull you back into earlier versions of you who were just trying to survive chaos, neglect, or emotional immaturity.

Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with me?” try:

“Of course I feel activated. This time of year touches many old wounds.”

That reframe is an act of loving kindness and compassion toward yourself and the impact of the trauma you once experienced.

Real-Life Stories: Three Faces of Holiday Blues

Taryn: Poverty, Instability & the White-Knuckle Holiday Smile

By mid-November, Taryn’s shoulders start climbing toward her ears.

Nothing “bad” has happened yet. Her kids are talking about what they want for Christmas. Flyers from big box stores are piling up on the counter. Emails about sales and “must-have” toys flood her inbox. From the outside, it looks like regular holiday buildup.

Inside, her body is already bracing. Dreading.  The feeling of sadness and exhaustion are already involuntarily creeping in.

Taryn grew up in a house where holidays were a question mark. Some years there were a few gifts. Other years the electricity was off, or they were eating from food bank boxes, trying to stretch canned goods into a “special meal.”  Chaos was always afoot – holiday or not.

Her mother struggled with untreated mental health issues. Some days she was loving and fun. Other days she stayed in her room with the door closed. As a child, Taryn learned to scan the emotional weather:

• Is Mom okay today?

• Is it safe to be hopeful?

• Is it safer not to ask?

When she tries to remember specific holidays from childhood, the memories blur together: arguments in the kitchen with the latest boyfriend, last-minute scrambles, her mother crying in the bathroom, everyone walking on eggshells. Though Taryn had siblings they were being raised by other relatives.  Essentially, she was on her own.

As an adult, Taryn made a promise to herself to create the family she didn’t have:

“I am going to make the holidays magical. I am not going to repeat what I grew up with.”

Her calendar fills quickly—classroom parties, church events, family gatherings, gift exchanges. She overcompensates with gifts and activities, determined that her kids will “never feel poor.” On the outside, she looks like the mom who has it all together.

On the inside, she’s white-knuckling. A significant other who is not thoughtful or considerate.  Children who don’t think of her.  An estranged mother.  

Her sleep is poor. Her patience is thin. She’s on empty.  Exhausted emotionally.  She snaps at her kids and then feels guilty. She tells herself, “We’re okay now. I should be grateful.” What she doesn’t yet realize is that every carol and every twinkle light is layered over years of holidays that were unstable, uncertain, and quietly painful as she was the child on the outside looking in as her classmates and neighborhood peers had a different experience than her.

A younger part of her is still waiting for a steady, safe holiday—and still waiting to be seen and soothed.

Allison: Emotionally Immature Parents & Holidays That Never Quite Landed

For Allison, the holidays were always a coin toss.

Some years, there was a near movie-moment: music playing, something baking in the oven, everyone at least pretending to be cheerful. There were gifts, food, and flashes of warmth. And the crescendo moments of arguments and discord. Other years, everything cracked from beginning to end.

Her parents were emotionally immature and unavailable long before she had those words. Her mother’s moods set the tone for the house. Her father hid behind silence and alcohol. The unspoken rules were clear:

• Don’t bring up anything real.

• Don’t upset Mother.

• Don’t expect too much from Dad.

Alcohol was the unofficial guest at every gathering. Sometimes it lubricated the evening; other times it opened the door to arguments, tears, or the kind of icy quiet and tension that lasted for days.

As a child, Allison learned to read the room:

• Which version of Mother are we getting today?

• Which version of Dad?

• Are we allowed to enjoy ourselves, or is it safer to stay small?

The people who quietly held the center—an older aunt, a steady grandmother—began to pass away. These were the ones who cooked, who remembered everyone’s favorites, who brought extra food “just in case.” One by one, the anchors left. Eventually, her parents divorced.  It was a contentious divorce and the children were spoils of war.

Now, in her late 40s, Allison is the one with the stable job and the reliable car. On paper, she’s the obvious person to “carry the tradition.”

A sadness begins to wash over her as November approaches.  Every year to tries to convince herself that it will be a new experience.  But when she opens the ornament box, grief rises in her throat.

Every object is a ghost: her grandmother’s chipped bowl, the glass angel from her aunt, the Christmas lights passed down from the family stash.   . They’re not just things; they’re threads from a version of “home” that no longer exists.

Her parents are older now with varying degrees of health challenges. Long divorced, alone and needing care.  Her mother still numbs with alcohol and refuses to acknowledge the past.  She speaks a mixture of venom and blame. Her father keeps conversations on the surface: reminiscing about work, the weather, the news. They never name what hurts. Nothing is ever wrong.  Nothing was ever wrong.  It’s all in Allison’s imagination.

Allison feels a mix of longing and dread. She wants to create warmth and memory. But how?  With whom?  She also wants to disappear under a blanket until January. Scrolling social media, she sees “Grandma’s recipe” posts and big matching-pajamas photos. She’s happy for other people—and still, it stings.

The truth circling in her mind:

“There’s no one at the center anymore.”

She doesn’t just miss people. She misses a sense of rootedness, of being the child instead of the one holding the entire emotional center. The caregiver. 

Maya: Grieving the Family You Imagined

Maya never imagined her life would look like this at 55.

When she pictured her future as a younger woman, she saw a long table full of people—kids running in and out of the kitchen, a partner at the other end, loud chaotic mornings with too much wrapping paper on the floor.

She assumed, like many of us do, that those things would just… happen.

But life unfolded differently.

There were a couple of serious relationships and one engagement that didn’t make it to the altar. There were years where work and caregiving took all of her bandwidth. Friends got married, had children, got divorced, some remarried. Somehow, she never quite landed in the version of “family” she imagined.

One day she looked up and realized: there are no baby books with her handwriting. No school photos on her fridge. No spouse rolling their eyes as they retrieved the holiday decorations out of the garage.

Maya genuinely enjoys much of her life. She has friends. She travels. She reads. She knows how to be good company to herself.

But the holidays are complicated.

Group chats buzz with plans: family trips, school performances, in-law drama. She feels happy for the people she loves—and at the same time, there’s a quiet ache that no one sees.

Her siblings invite her to join their family gatherings. Sometimes she goes. She brings thoughtful gifts, helps with the cooking, plays games with nieces and nephews. She’s the fun aunt, the reliable one.

There’s always a moment that lands hard: a child curled into a mother’s lap, a couple bumping shoulders in the kitchen while they wash dishes. Maya smiles, helps load the dishwasher, says goodbye, and drives home.

In the quiet of her own place, holiday nights can feel like a spotlight on what isn’t there.

She has a small tree she decorates with ornaments collected from her travels. Sometimes, as she hangs them, a thought slides in uninvited:

“This wasn’t the plan.”

Her holiday grief isn’t only about the past. It’s about an unlived life—a version of herself who became someone’s mom, someone’s partner, someone’s “home.”

Little by little, Maya is experimenting with new meanings. Each year, she hosts a small gathering for friends who are also navigating non-traditional paths: single, child-free, divorced, far from family. They eat, laugh, and tell the truth about their lives—the beautiful parts and the hard parts.

It doesn’t erase the ache. But for a few hours, she feels less alone, part of a quiet, brave constellation of people rewriting what “holiday” can mean.

When Family Isn’t Safe

Some families are not just “difficult.” They are:

• Emotionally abusive, manipulative, or chronically toxic

• Dismissive and invalidating

• Full of the “-ists,” “antis-” and “phobias,” classist, or rigidly judgmental

• Narcissistic, controlling, or chronically shaming

• Uninterested in accountability, repair, or growth

• Unkind, self-centered, or willfully ignorant

• Struggling with untreated addiction

• Inappropriate, injurious, or predatory

When you grow up in systems like this, holidays can feel like a stage where the same old roles play out:

• You swallow your truth to keep the peace.

• You endure comments that cut deep.

• You shrink to be less “sensitive,” less “much,” less… you.

It is okay for you to choose yourself.  To not play the “go along to get along” game:

Choosing not to go “home,” choosing to leave early, or choosing low/no contact is not betrayal. It is an act of self-protection. When you’ve had enough, you’ve had enough.

You are allowed to:

• Set a time limit for how long you’ll stay.

• Drive yourself so you can leave when you’re done.

• Decline invitations that will re-injure you.

• Say, “I’m not available for that conversation,” and change the subject—or walk away.

Boundary scripts you can borrow:

• “I won’t be able to make it this year. I’m taking care of some things on my end.”

• “I’m not comfortable talking about that. Let’s stick to lighter topics.”

• “If the conversation keeps going in that direction, I’m going to excuse myself.”

• “I’m leaving by ___XX (fill in the blank) tonight—that’s what works for me.”

Boundaries are not about punishing anyone. They’re about protecting your peace and your life force.

Grief at the Table: The Empty Chair

Grief doesn’t care that there are twinkling lights and cheerful soundtracks in every store.

It sits with you:

• When you see their favorite food.

• When a song comes on that you used to listen to together.

• When you realize no new photos will ever be added to the camera roll.

• When everyone else seems coupled and you’re navigating a breakup, a divorce, chronic unwanted singleness, or the loss of the future you imagined.

You might find yourself laughing one minute and crying the next.You might want to talk about the person you lost—or not talk about them at all.

All of it is valid.

Small ways to honor grief if it feels right:

• Light a candle and whisper their name.

• Cook one dish  or plan a menu that reminds you of them.

• Create a small corner (an altar of the heart) with a photo, an object, a flower, a note.

• Allow yourself to tell a story about them—or write it in your journal if saying it out loud is too tender.

Grief is the disbelief that lingers when we have known life with a person and suddenly—or slowly—they are gone. Our love remains. Our memories are vivid. But embracing them, touching them, hearing their laughter, is no longer accessible.

Allowing yourself to feel it is not “ruining the holiday.” It is honoring the depth of your love, your connection, and your humanity.

“You’re Still Here”: Gratitude Without Gaslighting

You don’t have to be grateful for what happened to you. Not for the trauma, the neglect, the losses, the betrayals.

But you are still here.

Your nervous system has carried you through every holiday you thought might break you.Your heart has survived disappointments that could have hardened you completely.Even the seasons you spent shut down or in survival mode were your body’s way of trying to protect you.

“You’re still here” is not a cliché. It’s reality. It’s proof of your energy, vitality, and life force.

• Proof that your story didn’t end at the site of the wound.

• Proof that you are capable of healing and choosing differently, even if your hands shake while you do it.

• Proof that grief and gratitude can coexist without canceling each other out.

Let’s be mindful with gratitude here. This is not:

“Other people have it worse, so stop feeling how you feel.”

This is:

“You are allowed to name the hurt and notice what still holds you—and where the pain lives in your body and story.”

Gentle gratitude might sound like:

• “I’m not okay, and I’m grateful I have language for that now.”

• “This family is unsafe for me, and I’m grateful I’ve learned to set boundaries.”

• “I miss them, and I’m grateful for the love that makes this grief so deep.”

• “This season is complicated, and I’m grateful I’m learning how to care for myself inside of it.”

Gratitude, in this context, becomes a pivot point—not a performance.

Your Life Force Is Not for Sacrifice

The holidays can be consuming of your energy. If you grew up over-functioning, you may have learned that your job is to:

• Keep everyone else comfortable

• Fix the mood

• Smooth over every conflict

• Be what everyone else needs, even at your own expense

Here is another truth:

Your life force—your energy and your vitality—is not here to be drained by dysfunction.

Your life force is meant to be lived, utilized, and cultivated for your healing, your creativity, and your life.

This season, that might look like:

• Saying “no” to one thing so you can say “yes” to your nervous system.

• Leaving a gathering early when your body says, “We’re done.”

• Choosing a quiet night with candles, tea, and a journal over yet another obligation you don’t enjoy.

• Giving yourself permission to rest without earning it through overwork or over-giving.

This isn’t selfish. It’s stewardship.

You need your life force for:

• The creative ideas that want to come through you.

• The relationships that are reciprocal and kind.

• The healing work you’re already doing.

• The life you’re intentionally building beyond survival mode.

Tending Your Emotional Garden

Think of your inner world as an emotional garden. The holidays may stir up storms, but you still have some say in how you tend your soil.

Here are some trauma-informed, doable practices:

1. Body Check-In (2–3 minutes)

Place a hand on your heart or your belly and ask:

• “What am I feeling right now?”

• “Where do I feel it in my body?”

• “What do I need in this moment—comfort, space, movement, rest, quiet, connection?”

You don’t have to fix it. Just start by noticing.

2. Make One Gentle Plan for Yourself

Ask:

“What is one tiny act of care I can offer myself today?”

Ideas:

• A short walk.

• A warm shower where you intentionally imagine washing off the day.

• Playing one song that soothes you—eyes closed, hand on heart.

• Stepping outside to feel air on your skin.

• A day trip to where ever – pack up a lunch, blanket, create a play list and vibe out.

• Plan a personal retreat.  Change scenery.  Plan meditation, prayer, silence, rest, and creativity

Not grand gestures—just small, consistent tending.

3. Both/And Statements

Play with language that makes room for complexity:

• “I feel lonely, and I’m grateful I’m learning how to be with myself.”

• “I’m disappointed, and I can still create a small moment of beauty today.”

• “I’m grieving, and I’m open to glimpses of joy finding me.”

Both/And is a muscle. The more you practice it, the stronger it gets.

 

Reimagining Family, Community, and Tradition

Family is not only defined by blood and DNA. You are allowed to expand your definition of “home” and “belonging.”

Your “family” might be:

• Friends who check on you

• Neighbors who wave and share food

• Online communities where you feel seen

• Spiritual or creative spaces where your full self is welcomed

Consider tiny, low-pressure traditions you can create:

• A solo or shared movie night in cozy clothes

• A simple meal you make just for you, beautifully plated, even if it’s small

• A gratitude-and-grief journaling ritual with candles

• A text or voice-note exchange with a friend where you both ask, “How’s your heart today?”

• A long drive or walk to a mountain, ocean, or park for a solo retreat

Connection doesn’t have to be loud, big, or expensive. It just has to be real.

Journal Prompts for Your Emotional Garden

You might want to copy these into your journal, notes app, or notebook:

1. What stories about “perfect holidays” did I grow up with? Which of those am I ready to release?

2. What am I grieving this season—people, relationships, expectations, younger versions of me?

3. Where in my body do the holidays land the heaviest? What helps soften that, even a little?

4. If I fully honored the truth that I’m still here, what is one tiny way I would pivot toward myself this week?

5. If my life is an emotional garden, what small seed of beauty, rest, or joy can I plant in the soil of this season?

A Closing Blessing & Meditation

If the holidays feel complicated, heavy, or downright painful this year, this blessing is for you:

I am here on these days and every day of the year to live, to love, and to allow my life to unfold. To create. To thrive and to cultivate and live a beautiful life.

This day is a new day—fresh, clean, and unused. A day I’ve never seen before. A day I will never see again. It is a day that I get to be present in and use wisely.

This holiday season is a time to pour into myself. To give myself what I desire and long for. To shower loving-kindness upon myself and others. To be gentle and loving with myself.

The holidays are socially constructed. My life is an expression of creation. My existence is intentional and I will live my life intentionally.

I will go where doors are open. I will be a friend and have friends where reciprocity is the foundation of our exchanges.

My joy is my responsibility. My life is mine to value and multiply.

You are not the only one dreading the holidays.You are not the only one making hard choices to protect your peace.You are not the only one holding grief in one hand and hope in the other.

You are still here.Your life force is still here.And it is far too sacred to be sacrificed at the altar of appearances, old roles, or unsafe traditions.

May you honor your grief without rushing it.May you guard your energy like the precious resource it is.May you tend to your emotional garden with gentleness and truth.May you practice gratitude that does not gaslight your pain, but reminds you of what still sustains you.

You are worthy of a life—and a holiday season—that makes room for your whole self:the grieving you, the tired you, the hopeful you,and the still-here you.