I decorate for Christmas on November 1, hanging silly stockings and stringing colored lights that reflect my Millennial, middle-class roots. I stock the coffee station with hot chocolate powder, gather baking supplies, and swap out my everyday apron for the one with a holly pattern. I embrace the holiday season with enthusiasm.

While December is often viewed as a time of stress and melancholy, studies from organizations like the CDC and APA suggest that this belief is more cultural cliché than reality. Yet, for those learning to live with grief, Christmas can operate as a magnifying glass on what is missing, amplifying loneliness, nostalgia, and memories—even for moments that never truly existed. This contrast of mirth and emptiness feels especially poignant for those enduring the quiet, profound pain of pregnancy loss. The holiday season’s emphasis on the wonder in a child’s face—reflected back to their parents in the shimmer of a great glossy ornament—can amplify the ache of absence.

I lost my daughter, Genevieve Rachel at 37.5 weeks in 2022 on August 31st. Grief, as it often does, settled over me in layers, saturating the holiday season with blank stares, sentimental yet hollow gestures, and bursts of anger that spilled into tearful tirades. Though perhaps the most crushing feeling of all was the pang of fruitless longing—a relentless force that swept through me like wind across a wheatfield, leaving me blinded at times by helplessness and sorrow. But it lasted only for a moment at a time—a volcanic, thirty-second eruption that quickly solidified into extrusive igneous rock, creating a fortified island of protection.

Year by year, this process continues, each new layer of basalt adding to the foundation. While it may never become a lush tropical paradise, it forms a steadfast barrier against the relentless storms.

My husband and I are blessed with another daughter, Maple, a feisty 15-month-old who loves to dance, flip through picture books, and dismantle her playpen. She has a button nose which she crinkles when she smiles, and she has a love for the animated series Bluey that borderes on obsession. I look at her in her Christmas dress and think how sweet it would be to match it with her sister and remember that the only dress I ever got to place her in was the one my husband and I purchased for her own first Christmas, which became her burial gown.

I picture Maple, bright with the glory of Christmas, chasing after her cousin, or playing in her fake kitchen, and I know that she should be following at the heels of her sister, a pack of girls zooming through the house to the smiles of their parents and consternation of the old blind family dog. I can almost see Genevieve in those moments, perhaps just turning the corner, this little ghost girl who lives only on the fringes of doorways, just out of sight.

I picture her eagerly helping Maple open presents, only to gleefully claim one for herself when it’s something she decides she wants. I picture her sneaking sugar cookies and teaching Maple not to fear Santa Claus. But that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s only a picture—a vivid one that comes alive most clearly during Christmas.

For some, this kind of nostalgia for what can no longer be—or never was—takes the shape of a beloved grandmother serving buckeyes and oatmeal quickies. For others, it’s the image of a mother marveling at a grandchild’s reindeer dress—a grandchild she never got to meet, perhaps due to a cancer diagnosis. As these bereaved individuals watch their children giddily shred wrapping paper, they allow themselves, briefly, to feel the weight of that loss before being swept up in the warmth and affection of the family they’ve built in the here and now.

So, I enjoy Christmas. I love the movies, parades, festivals, and lights. My home overflows with gingerbread and snowman throw pillows, and my tree is a vibrant explosion of color. Yet, in fleeting moments, the season reminds me with piercing clarity how much richer life would be if Genevieve were here, warm in her bed while visions of sugar plums dance in her head.