by: JT (Janna Tusa, author of Glimmers of Hope Vol. I and II)
The holidays have a way of softening the world.
There is magic in the air, hot cocoa warming our hands, lights shimmering on rooftops, children buzzing with anticipation. For many, this season is wrapped in joy, nostalgia, and all the comforts that remind us of home.
But woven quietly into that same season is another experience — one we rarely acknowledge out loud. Grief does not take a holiday. Heartache does not pause at the sight of twinkling lights. Loss does not slow its pace because the calendar tells us to be merry.
And so, every December, there are countless people moving through the world with a fractured but determined heart. Smiling for photos. Hosting gatherings. Wrapping gifts with trembling hands. Doing their best to honor traditions while carrying a weight no one else can see.
I know this intimately, because this year, I was one of them.
The Heartbreaks We Don’t Talk About
Grief is not always defined by death.
Sometimes it looks like the quiet unraveling of relationships we thought were forever.
Sometimes it sounds like a phone that no longer rings.
Sometimes it feels like the distance between who we were and who we have become.
As I stepped into this holiday season, I carried all of it.
The loss of my uncle.
The tragic death of my parents.
The estrangement of my cousin and her children.
Friendships that once felt like home but dissolved into silence.
The ache of watching the world fracture under extremism and hatred —daily occurrences of murdered children right here on our own soil, the dehumanization of Jews, rising antisemitism, and an alarming ease with which society turns its head. We have become desensitized to the loss of human life as a society.
This year, grief threaded itself through every celebration.
Even in my own home, it showed up in unexpected ways. My daughters no longer ask for toys; they want clothes, makeup, things that remind me they are growing up faster than I ever imagined. Gift-giving feels different when the little-girl magic fades into teenage chapters. Another kind of grieving — the passage of time — settles in quietly but unmistakably.
And then there is distance. Physical distance. Emotional distance. The kind that makes the holidays feel incomplete. I am far from my immediate family, and I found myself hoping — almost praying — that I will get one more Christmas with them. That time will pause long enough for us to share another memory, another laugh, another photograph we will someday cling to.
This is the truth so many live with during a season that tells us to smile.
The Invisible Battle Behind Holiday Cheer
We often forget that the people we love — the ones right beside us at holiday tables, the ones posting festive photos, the ones showing up for school plays and office parties — may be carrying grief so heavy that even joy feels exhausting.
That is why this season, more than any other, demands compassion.
Ask the real questions:
“How is your heart doing?”
“How are you holding your grief?”
“What do you need today, even if it feels small?”
It is easy to assume someone is fine because they are functioning.
But functioning is not healing.
Being strong does not mean being unbroken.
And being grateful does not mean being untouched by pain.
Selfishness has no place here. Not when the world is aching in every direction.
The Grief of a World in Turmoil
This year, collective grief became its own kind of shadow.
We watched violence erupt across continents.
We witnessed hatred resurface in forms we once believed humanity had outgrown.
We saw antisemitism rise loudly — on campuses, in streets, online, in political discourse — like a warning siren we cannot afford to ignore.
We saw innocent lives lost, families shattered, children murdered, and a global numbness that should terrify us all.
Grieving personal loss while grieving the world feels like a double ache. A heaviness that does not lift quickly. But acknowledging it matters. Saying it out loud matters. Being awake matters.
Choosing Kindness in a Season That Needs It Most
If there is one thing grief teaches us, it is this: we never truly know the battles someone else is fighting.
We never know the memory that caught in their throat over breakfast.
Or the phone call they wished they could make.
Or the holiday tradition they now do alone.
Or the empty chair at their table that feels impossible to look at.
But kindness — small, intentional, genuine — has the power to shift everything.
Check in.
Show up.
Offer a meal, a hug, a moment of quiet companionship.
Say the thing you think they already know.
Send the text.
Make the space.
Choose softness, even when the world feels hard.
Because somewhere out there, someone is holding grief the very same way you are. Someone is fighting to stay hopeful. Someone is praying for a sign that humanity is still good.
Let that sign be you.
A Closing Thought
I am learning that joy and grief are not opposites.
They coexist.
They shape us.
They remind us of what we loved, what we dreamed, and what we still hope for.
This season, if your heart feels heavy, know that you are not alone.
If you are missing someone — whether they died, drifted, or disappeared behind their own walls — your grief is valid.
If you feel a sense of fear for the world, it is because you are still human enough to care.
And if you still choose kindness, even with a broken heart, you are already healing — and helping someone else heal, too.