Holidays, Grief, and Silver Linings

Thankfulness isn’t the absence of grief.

It’s the presence of choice.

This Christmas season, I was reminded—again—that joy and sorrow are not opposites. They sit side by side. Sometimes they even hold hands.

A friend texted in a group chat about Christmas feeling complicated this year. Her kids are growing up. One is still at home. One is engaged and away. One is struggling—homeless—but still reaching out, still wanting his mama, still asking if she’ll feed him Christmas dinner. The weight of it all was heavy, and she named it honestly.

When I read her message, something in me reframed it—not dismissing her pain, but holding it differently.

I thought:

How beautiful that you still have a 13-year-old under your roof.

How meaningful that you have a husband who loves you in that home.

How powerful that your ornery, struggling son still loves his mama enough to come home for a meal.

How extraordinary that you are surrounded by a thousand small, living moments that so many of my patients will never experience again.

Not because her pain isn’t real—but because gratitude can exist alongside grief.

A couple of weeks earlier, we participated in an honor walk at the hospital. More than 200 staff lined the halls as we wheeled a body to the OR—a body that was still warm, still breathing, heart still beating, yet already gone. The family walked with us, holding a hand that could no longer hold back. They were giving organs. Giving life. Giving the greatest gift imaginable through a choice that was both willing and unwilling at the same time.

That moment rearranged my Christmas.

It didn’t erase sadness. It clarified perspective.

Because here’s the thing we don’t talk about enough:

You are allowed to sit with pain.

You are allowed to cry.

You are allowed to grieve what was, what isn’t, and what never will be.

And—you still get to choose your posture toward life.

We often think that we get what we get, that feelings just come. But neuroscience—and lived experience—tell us something deeper: repeated actions shape thoughts, and thoughts shape emotions over time. When we choose gratitude as a practice—not a mood—we begin to see differently. Slowly. Gently. Honestly.

I’ve spent most of my life around medical work. That means holidays were often celebrated on different days. Birthdays, Christmas, Valentine’s Day—whenever the schedule allowed. In our family, it became a running joke that December 26th was superior anyway. Fifty-percent-off candy tastes better. Always has.

But that flexibility taught me something sacred:

Connection matters more than calendars.

Presence matters more than precision.

This blog isn’t about pretending your cup is half full when it feels bone dry. Some of us were born wired toward pessimism. Some of us learned survival before optimism. And still—we can choose beauty without being naïve.

We can sit in the quiet.

And then we can get up and help someone.

That’s the part I won’t compromise on.

When I write thank-you notes to my staff, I almost always say the same thing: Thank you for taking good care of people. Because that’s the purpose. That’s the why. And somehow—miraculously—it heals both the giver and the receiver, even when grief lingers.

Gratitude doesn’t deny pain.

It gives pain a companion.

And sometimes, that’s enough to keep us moving forward.

If you’re carrying both grief and gratitude this season, you’re not broken—you’re human. Sit with it. Then, when you’re ready, choose one small way to take good care of someone today. That choice matters more than you think.

🎧 Listen to the podcast: https://open.spotify.com/episode/5fPuZhjFCiX4e22tn2sms6?si=1HRy2yUlTCOriGelB0bZOg