The First Christmas Without My Sister

The first Christmas without my sister feels incredibly disorienting. I find myself searching for her in our familiar rituals—the way we always did things, sharing inside jokes, and her laughter echoing from the kitchen. Now, all that remains is quiet and a strange sense of waiting, as if she might walk through the door at any moment, bringing warmth and familiarity back into the room.

Christmas was always a special time for Abby. She cherished every part of it—the anticipation, the traditions, and the tiny details that made it truly magical, especially for the kids. She loved keeping the Elf on the Shelf stories alive, always inventing new mischief and magic so that my children could hold onto their belief a little longer. She genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. I used to think she was a bit too enthusiastic, but now I realize just how much happiness she brought to all of us. She made Christmas feel even bigger than just the traditions.

Whenever she was in town, she happily joined us to select a fresh Christmas tree. She would enjoy our road trip to the Christmas Tree Farm, always dressed in her stylish outfits, even if they weren’t ideal for the muddy conditions. Her hair was always perfectly styled, complemented by red lipstick and a bright, cheerful smile. Though small in stature, she was strong enough to help carry the perfect tree she helped choose, loading it into the back of our car. On the drive, she loved squeezing between the kids’ car seats, sharing funny “aunty” conversations that made everyone laugh. She often played songs to get the kids singing along. She truly enjoyed decorating the tree and making the holiday special for everyone.

She also loved putting together the Christmas menu, delighting in thoughts about various dishes, flavours, and everyone’s tastes. For her, food was more than just nourishment; it was a heartfelt way to bond with loved ones. Looking back, I see how vital she was in preserving these cherished traditions.

And every single year, without fail—no matter how much we planned or cared—my sisters and I would find ourselves in some kind of argument. We might be tired, stressed, and overwhelmed, leading us to snap, say things we didn’t mean, and take some time apart. But somehow, we always found our way back to each other—a warm conversation, a laugh, a hug, a kiss—and we’d settle our differences. Christmas had a special way of bringing us together, even when we were a bit irritable. That’s the beautiful mess of family: we might be imperfect, but we are always present. Abby always forgave first, cracking a joke to lighten the mood, and we would happily move on.

This year, that rhythm feels different—and a bit gentler. Our Christmas will be special in a new way because our sister isn’t with us anymore. Her absence makes us realize just how much we’ve taken for granted: the traditions, the effort, the presence, and all those little things we did for each other without ever imagining one day one of us wouldn’t be here.

If you’re reading this and you have your loved ones near, cherish them tightly. Take those silly family photos, indulge in an extra cookie, and let the small things go a little easier. I wish I had embraced these moments more.

There’s no way to bring back what’s been lost, but we can learn to find our balance within the space it leaves behind. What I share next isn’t strict instructions or rules; rather, it’s gentle offerings—things I am discovering, step by step, about how to navigate a Christmas touched by grief.

1. Let Traditions Shift (And Let Yourself Off the Hook)

Some traditions might feel really tough right now, and that’s perfectly okay. Others still hold a special, sacred place in our hearts. And some might seem a bit strange without her there. I’m discovering that it’s okay to loosen our grip on these traditions, change them, or even take a break from them when we need to.

This year, it’s alright to do things differently—and that’s simply part of the journey. Remember, adapting doesn’t mean love is lost; it’s a way of caring for ourselves through loss. Feel free to protect your heart and honour your feelings. If you need permission to skip the matching pyjamas or the big dinner, consider it granted. Grief has a way of rewriting the rules, and that’s okay.

2. Speak Their Name

Let’s say Abby’s name together. We’ll share stories about her, remembering her laughter, creativity, and love for Christmas. She might have rolled her eyes at the seriousness, but I believe she’d be happy that we’re still thinking of her. Recognizing her absence feels gentler than pretending everything is unchanged. Love doesn’t disappear—it shifts and takes new forms. If you’re missing someone too, say their name out loud. Share a memory or a story. Allow yourself to remember, even if tears come—because that’s truly real, and that’s what love is all about.

3. Choose One Thing That Brings Comfort

Whenever life feels a little overwhelming, try a simple grounding ritual—nothing fancy needed. Light a candle, brew a cozy cup of tea, or play your favourite playlist. Those small moments truly can make a big difference. For me, it’s lighting the holiday tree, cooking a beloved dish, or sitting quietly with treasured memories. Sometimes, just slipping on fuzzy socks and enjoying the warm glow of Christmas lights can bring comfort. Remember, finding comfort doesn’t need to be complicated—just do what makes you feel happy and relaxed.

4. Release Expectations

This Christmas doesn’t have to be joyful, festive, or meaningful in the traditional way. Whoever said it had to be ‘the most wonderful time of the year’ probably never had to face grief during the holidays. Just getting through the day is an achievement. Crying, laughter, or unexpected moments all count. There’s no need to perform or be perfect. If all you manage is to get to bedtime, that’s already enough. Keep in mind, it’s okay to take things one step at a time and be gentle with yourself during this season.

5. Accept Support—or Solitude—Without Explanation

Some moments will invite us to be close and supportive, while others might call for a little quiet time. Feel free to reach out to your ‘I can’t do this’ friend if you need to step back, and it’s perfectly okay to change your plans at the last minute. Holidays can be tough enough—no need to justify it. Remember, you get to choose what makes you feel safest, and it’s okay to change your mind whenever you need to. You don’t have to be strong or perfectly composed all the time—there’s no reward for suffering silently.

Holding What Remains

This Christmas might bring some sadness, but it also brings love—love that stays with us. It’s the kind that teaches us how to care deeply for each other, even if we don’t always get it perfect. If you’re reading this and feeling that ache too, I want you to know I see you. We’re in this together, quietly and imperfectly, holding onto what truly matters.

I wish we had slowed down more and paid attention to the small moments as they happened. But love isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being present. And when Abby was well enough, she was fully present in every Christmas she shared with us. I hope, wherever you are, you find a little bit of that presence this holiday season, too.

This year, we will cherish her in new ways.

And that will be enough.