This time of year the world is exploding with cheer, lights, cookies, and togetherness—but sometimes, when everyone else is celebrating, you feel like you’re barely breathing.

Advent is supposed to be joyful, right? A beautiful season of anticipation, hope, and peace. But for many of us, this season is marked more by absence than abundance. The holidays often make our grief louder, more consuming. The traditions, songs, and flavors that were once so sweet often leave us gasping for breath, nearly swallowed by sorrow. We long for what is simply not there—a grandma with shaky hands and a beaming smile, a chubby, giggling baby we long to hold, a friend gone too soon. The holidays amplify our grief. 

And it all can look so different. Often we lament the faces that will not walk through the door, laughs that will not echo across the table. But we cry, too, for what we miss out on when we’re in pain or suffering with a chronic or acute illness. We weep for our children who have left the faith and for their children who don’t know Jesus. We grieve our life before divorce or miscarriage or fights that have torn our family apart. Sometimes our grief doesn’t have a name. It’s just a heaviness, a fatigue. 

If your heart is heavy this time of year, you are not alone. The Church, in her wisdom, has never expected you to pretend. And Advent is a season where the grieving heart can find solace. Because while it does point us toward hope, peace, and joy, it is also a season of longing. It is a time of waiting and groaning, a quiet where the darkness is amplified just before the dawn. 

Israel waited centuries for a Savior. Centuries of grief, exile, disappointment, and hope deferred. The whole world, groaning since Eden, stood in that same ache. Like then, we wait for healing we haven’t yet seen, hope for restoration, hope for reunion.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9:2) 

Jesus, the Word made flesh, knew He wasn’t coming to this world for the parties and palaces, for the splendor and power. Instead of maneuvering in the houses of kings, he walked dusty roads so a woman could grasp the hem of his robe. He waited at wells and in leper colonies, He ventured to backwater fishing villages and impoverished towns. He dined with tax collectors and prostitutes.

It can be tempting in our time to reduce those meals to modern social causes or to assume this refers only to visibly marginalized groups—but, friend, we would be at that table, too. We, the grieving, the weary, the disappointed, the heartbroken, the angry, the confused, the afraid. We, who sometimes struggle to believe God loves us because our pain is so great and relief feels far away. We, who are angry at God because, despite being all powerful, He didn’t save or act the way we hoped He would… the way we begged Him to. We, who do not feel like our hearts are a worthy place fit for the King of Kings. 

So what do we do? What do we do when we can’t summon good cheer for the holidays? 

We can begin with love. Our grief is itself a sign of love. And love is a sign of God’s image within us and His work in us. To our senses, sorrow feels like evidence of God’s absence, but in truth, it is evidence that we were made for a world where nothing good is lost. And our loss and longing awakens in us a deeper hunger for the true homeland we were made for, the eternal Christmas where every loss is restored, every tear is wiped away, every longing finally fulfilled.

We can then remember something the saints repeat again and again: God does not ask you to feel a certain way; He asks you to remain with Him in truth. You don’t have to manufacture cheer or force joy you don’t feel. You don’t have to pretend your heart isn’t aching. Your grief draws God closer. The Psalms tell us He collects every tear (Psalm 56:8). Christ Himself wept at the tomb of His friend; God in flesh letting sorrow shake His chest. Each week in our Rosary, we recount the agonies and sorrows our Savior suffered. You do not have to be anything other than what you are for Him to come close.

And part of the miracle of Advent is this: God comes precisely to the places where we feel most empty. He comes to us in our waiting, grieving, wandering, and our hoping against hope. We can let our prayer this Advent be: “Come, Lord Jesus, into this place too.” Into the quiet, the ache, the empty chair at the table. Into the parts of your story that haven’t been restored yet.

Practical Tips for Grieving Hearts

1. Give yourself permission to simplify.

You don’t have to do every tradition. You don’t have to attend every gathering. You don’t have to decorate every corner of the house. Let your capacity be your guide. If all you can manage is lighting a candle and whispering, “Come, Lord Jesus,” that is a whole and holy Advent.

2. Create a small ritual of remembrance.

Grief needs space, not suppression.

Ideas:

• Light a candle for the one you miss.
• Set out a small nativity piece in their honor.
• Write their name in your journal each morning of Advent.
• Say a decade of the Rosary for them.
• Place a meaningful ornament on the tree.

3. Let Mary hold space for you.

Mary knows grief intimately. She waited in darkness and lived with unanswered questions. She desires to be near you and to comfort you. Invite her in. You can pray: “Mother Mary, hold my grief with me. Teach me how to wait with hope.”

4. Choose one Scripture to breathe with all Advent long.

Something short and gentle that anchors you when the grief comes in waves. A few possibilities:

• “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted.” (Psalm 34:18)
• “My soul waits for the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning.” (Psalm 130:6)
• “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 21:4)
• “The light shines in the darkness.” (John 1:5)

Let it become your breath prayer: inhale the first half, exhale the second.

5. Set one boundary that protects your heart.

The holidays often push us past emotional limits.

Choose one boundary, like:

• Leaving a gathering early
• Skipping a tradition that hurts this year
• Saying “I can’t talk about that right now” when asked painful questions
• Protecting one quiet evening a week

Jesus Himself withdrew to lonely places to pray. You are allowed to rest.

6. Let someone else carry a small part of your load.

Ask one trusted person:

• “Can you pray for me today?”
• “Can you sit with me for a bit?”
• “Can you help me with this errand?”
  

God often heals through community, and you weren’t meant to bear grief alone. You’re welcome to email us! We’d love to pray for you!

7. Remember: grief and joy can coexist.

If you laugh this Advent, it doesn’t mean you’re “over it.” If you cry, it doesn’t mean you lack faith. The Christian life is always a mingling of sorrow and joy—just like the manger and the cross.

This Advent, may you feel Christ drawing near. He is not waiting for you at the end of your grief. He is Emmanuel: God with us. He is in this with you right now.