There are certain dates that don’t just sit on a calendar. They live in your body. They live in your memory. They live in the way your chest feels when the month changes and you realize, here we go again.

For me, December 15, 1999 is one of those dates.

That’s the day my mama lost her battle with cancer. And no matter how much time passes, December still knows exactly how to find me.

And as if that date wasn’t enough, life added another layer. My divorce was finalized on December 20, 2023.

Five days after the anniversary of losing my mama.

But I’m learning something. Even when grief finds me, it does not get to finish me.

The Month That Holds Both Joy and Missing

December can be beautiful and still be brutal. It can hold celebration for other people while holding sorrow for others. But for me, December has always been complicated. It can show me what I’ve lost while also reminding me that I’m still here.

And that’s the part I’m holding onto this year. I’m still here.

Grief Has Layers

Grief gets described like a feeling, but for me it shows up like a full-body experience. It’s unanswered questions that never got answered. It’s frustration that doesn’t always have a place to land, so it settles in me.

Grief is missing my mama’s voice and wondering who I would be if she was still here. It’s wondering what she’d tell me right now, in this exact season. Grief is waking up okay and then getting hit with a memory that takes my breath. Grief is feeling it in my entire body, not just my heart. It lives in my body, in my sleep, in my appetite, and in my energy.

Grief is also telling the truth that closure doesn’t erase memory. I’m thankful for my divorce and I’m grateful I’m loved the way I desire today. And still, I can grieve the routines and the life I had in St. Petersburg, because that version of life mattered to me. Love is the highest frequency, so I’m staying open-hearted, not open-access.

And Still, I’m Choosing Healing

Some years, I move through this month with a little more ease. Other years, it feels heavier. This year, I’ve felt the weight.

But I’m not staying stuck in it. I’m choosing healing, even when it’s messy. I’m choosing to tell the truth and write about where I am. I’m choosing to release what I can’t change and hold tighter to God.

Because hope is not pretending it doesn’t hurt. Hope is believing God can hold me while it hurts.

What Hope Looks Like for Me Right Now

Hope looks like remembering my mama and still allowing myself to smile. Hope looks like understanding that grief comes in waves, but I’ve survived every single one so far. Hope looks like trusting that even if I don’t get all the answers, I can still get peace.

Hope looks like this reminder:
God didn’t bring me this far to abandon me in December.

If December is Hard for You Too

Let me talk to the one who feels grief get louder when the holidays get close.

You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are not weak for grieving “too long.”
You are not wrong for needing extra softness right now.

Give yourself permission to feel what you feel, and still believe better days are possible.

Sometimes hope is loud. Sometimes hope is quiet.
Sometimes hope is simply getting out of bed and deciding, “I’m going to try again today.”

We’re going to make it through this month. One day at a time. One breath at a time.