Letters From The Quiet Corner, I’m Still Here, Even When I Disappear

It’s been a while since I wrote.

Christmas and New Year used to be my favourite time of year. I loved everything about it — the lights, the decorations, the food, the noise, the family. It felt warm and full and alive.

Now it all feels dull and grey. Or maybe that’s just how I see it.

Christmas and New Year have become proof that the world has gone on without him, even though I haven’t. Sometimes that realisation makes me angry — probably because I’m forced to face it head-on. I know this. Knowing it doesn’t make it any easier.

This year, I made a conscious effort to paste a smile on my face and take part. Decorating. Shopping. Cooking. Showing up.
But every “Merry Christmas” and every “Happy New Year” cut like a knife, straight into the part of my heart that Nicki took with him.

Have you ever heard an amputee say that their missing limb still hurts?
That’s what this feels like.

The part of my heart Nicki took with him hurts just as much as the day it was cleaved from my chest.

So yes — my children saw me smile this Christmas.
And my husband held me while I tried not to cry.

It’s a balancing act.
I don’t even know if it’s normal or healthy, but I do know that this is me right now — and I suppose I’m going to have to learn how to live with that.

I know this journey isn’t made of straight lines. I know there will be days when I think, I’ve got this. And there will be days when I feel so low it’s as if I’m right there beside him again.

I also know this is normal. That until I accept my grief — until I acknowledge it instead of fighting it — I will probably always feel this way.

And you know what? I think that’s okay.

Because this grief is mine.
This journey is mine.
It is real. It is raw. And it isn’t going anywhere. Ever.

I don’t like Christmas anymore.
All it represents to me now is what I’m missing.

No present, card, decoration, or shopping trip is going to fix that. Instead, it reminds me of everything that isn’t there — a missing FaceTime on Christmas Day, a missing seat at the table, a missing glass of Diablo next to mine.

Missing memories we’ll never get to make.

I’m not going to sit here and tell you it will be okay — because it won’t. And I don’t know that it ever will.

But I can say this:

I see you.
I hear your grief.
And your feelings are just as valid as mine.