Christmas came and went without my mom, and her absence was loud.

It showed up in the empty spaces. In the moments where her voice should have been. In the traditions that continued, but felt slightly off, like they were missing their anchor. Even in a full room, surrounded by people I love, I felt incredibly alone. There was laughter, conversation, familiar faces, but there was also this hollow feeling that followed me from room to room. A reminder that she was missing.

There were moments when I didn’t want to be part of the holiday at all. When showing up felt heavy and exhausting. But I did it anyway. I showed up for my family, for the kids, for the version of myself that knows my mom would want me there. I smiled when I could. I participated when I had the energy. I stayed longer than I wanted to. Grief didn’t stop me from being present. But it made being present cost more.

What surprised me most wasn’t how hard Christmas Day was. It was how lonely the days after felt.

Once everything was over the quiet became overwhelming. My social battery was completely depleted. The effort it took to be “okay” for a day left me empty afterward. There was nothing left just the ache. Just the missing.

I find myself desperately itching for change, yearning to feel her presence in some way. That’s the one thing I still haven’t felt. People talk about signs and comfort and feeling their loved ones close but I’m still waiting. Still searching. Still hoping for something that lets me know she’s here.

So I brought myself to the beach.

I didn’t go with expectations. I just knew I needed to be in that space. I needed air. I needed something steady and grounding. Standing there, listening to the waves crash against the shore, I finally felt a calm I’ve been searching for. The ocean didn’t ask anything of me. It didn’t need me to talk or explain or hold it together. It just existed, constant and strong.

For a moment, the noise inside me softened.

Maybe healing doesn’t always come in the form of answers or signs. Maybe sometimes it comes in waves, in quiet, in letting yourself stand still and feel small next to something bigger.

The first Christmas without my mom was heavy. The days after revealed just how deep my loss runs. But in that stillness by the water, I remembered that I’m allowed to step away, to rest, to grieve in my own way.

And for now, that calm is enough.

This is me grieving.