Dear Friends,
It’s been a while since I’ve written here. This past year, I poured all of my energy into something intense and necessary. While working full time, I was also advocating for fairer conditions at work through my union. It was a long year of researching labor laws, showing up, speaking out, standing firm. And somehow, the motion of it all, the constant doing, kept me moving ahead.
But now the holidays are here, and everything shifts. The pace slows. The work calendar clears. The noise quiets just enough for silence to slip in. And in that quiet, grief finds its way back in. It comes in waves, in the stillness, in the quiet moments between plans.
At the same time, there’s pressure. To show up. To smile. To be festive, even if your heart feels tender or far away. Everyone seems to expect celebration and togetherness, but you’re carrying something else. And that can feel lonely in a way that’s hard to explain.
This is my first holiday season without three loved ones. Their absence lingers in everything, in the traditions, in the smell of a certain dish, in the way their voice would rise in laughter, in the spaces they once filled…
If you’re also feeling that ache, if the holidays bring more heaviness than light, I want to offer you a small place to rest. A little reminder that you are not alone.
I don’t have big answers, but here are a few things that have helped me show up for myself, gently, through this season.
If you’re expected to be with family or attend a holiday event, it’s okay to set a quiet boundary for yourself.
You don’t have to stay the whole time. Give yourself permission to arrive late, leave early, or step outside for a breath if it becomes too much. These small choices are acts of care. Quiet ways of honoring your own needs.
It’s also okay not to show up at all.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for your heart is to opt out. If this is one of those years, let yourself rest without guilt. Grief has its own timeline. You are being kind to yourself.
Create a tiny ritual to honor the one you miss.
Light a candle. Burn some incense. Buy some flowers. Place a photo somewhere you’ll see it. Write them a letter. Whisper their name into the quiet. It can be something small and sweet. Just what feels right.
Step outside and spend a little time in nature.
Even a short walk in the park, or simply sitting where the sunlight can touch your face, can be wonderfully grounding. The rhythm of trees, the feeling of wind, the earth beneath your feet … these things can hold you in ways words cannot.
Feed yourself gently.
Grief can dull appetite or make us forget what we need. Try to keep something nourishing nearby. Even just a cup of warm tea, some soup or a piece of fruit.
Let your emotions be what they are.
If you cry, that’s okay. If you don’t cry, that’s okay too. You might want to laugh or feel numb. There is no right way to grieve. There is just your way, and that is enough.
Tidy a small space.
In Japan, the end of the year is a time for deep cleaning. It is a way to clear out both the physical and emotional dust of the year. I find this ritual grounding and even meditative. You don’t need to do much. Just one drawer, one corner. Often, the act of releasing what no longer serves us opens space for quiet peace to come in. You might be surprised at how much lighter you feel after.
Reach out to someone you trust.
If it’s starting to feel like too much, you don’t have to hold it all alone. Call or text a friend. Write an email. Or say out loud, “Hey, I’m having a hard time.” You deserve support too, not just when you’re strong, but when you’re soft and struggling. And you might not be the only one. By middle age, most of us have lost someone we love. Many people are grieving, even if they don’t say it out loud. Reaching out might not just help you feel less alone… it might help someone else feel seen too.
Whatever this season looks like for you, I hope you know that it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay if your heart leans more toward stillness than celebration. It’s okay to want solitude. It’s okay to need quietness.
You are simply a tender soul, and you’re doing your best.
You can move slowly.
You can begin again when you’re ready.
You don’t owe any explanations.
Just be where you are.
That’s what I’m learning to do, too.
Sending care from this quiet corner of the world to yours.
With Love,
Sofie