Focusing on moments of joy when Christmas has lost its sparkle: Astrid’s story

December 2025

As Christmas approaches, WAY member Astrid shares some of the challenges she is facing as she navigates her first Christmas as a widowed mum – and how she is planning to focus on the small things that bring her and her children joy…

“And so this is Christmas…

And I find myself facing my first one as a widow at 37. This Christmas also brings my first birthday without him, as well as New Year – a triple hit that makes everything feel heavier. I’ll be the last ‘celebration’ of the season, although really it just means another thing to get through. The joy has been stripped from these moments.

My body doesn’t know how to handle Christmas – never mind my mind. Since becoming a mum, Christmas was one of the most magical times of the year. I loved creating that bubble of excitement for the kids, watching the lights through their eyes, feeling the warmth of our little family just being together.

My children are five and two now – just four and one when my husband died. These are the golden years, the perfect ages for Christmas magic, when wonder almost radiates from them. And I feel robbed of experiencing it the way it should have been. I can feel these precious, fleeting years slipping through my fingers while I’m drowning in sadness. There’s this pressure, this fear that grief is stealing the most beautiful years of their childhood from me. It’s one of the most painful parts of all of this.

Then there are the memories – innocent, happy moments that now feel sharp. When they rise, it’s like being scolded from the inside: ‘How dare you feel that?’ A warm memory turns instantly into pain. The things that once comforted me now feel like weapons. Everything familiar has been scrambled, leaving me exposed and lonelier than I’ve ever been.

Christmas is a time when families gather in their little tribes. People say it’s never perfect, but you don’t realise how perfect the imperfect was until life is blown apart.

Everything feels heavier

Most years I couldn’t wait to put up the tree. This year, December arrived suddenly and I don’t even have one up. I will, for the kids, but even that feels overwhelming – I can’t get it out of the loft because it’s too heavy. Somehow that small, practical detail makes everything feel heavier emotionally too.

It’s supposed to be ‘the happiest time of year’, but facing it without him makes it feel like the saddest. Everyone else’s excitement feels louder, while my grief sits quietly but unbearably inside me. I already felt isolated, but the joy around me makes the loneliness more intense. Even simple, well-meaning messages – Merry Christmas, Happy New Year – land differently now. They remind me of who is missing, of the love that should still be here. And I find myself wondering how on earth you get through a season built around togetherness when a piece of your together is gone.

Navigating the first year

What carried me through that first year wasn’t strength so much as routine. The school run saved me in its own way; my children gave me reason to get up. I went back to full-time work, but it became clear that combining sole parenting, acute grief and a high-stress job wasn’t sustainable.

Support took many forms: some quiet and steady, some that completely overwhelmed me with love, and none of it was wrong. I appreciated everyone’s ability to show care in different ways. The love and help of friends and family kept me going, and forming friendships with other widows through WAY really became a lifeline. At times we’d send several messages a day just to help each other get through. I reached out to a bereavement charity for my eldest’s play therapy, allowed myself small comforts - a good cup of tea, a binge-worthy series, a moment of rest, and, of course, some much-needed therapy.

Over time, simple journalling grew into video journalling on Instagram – documenting our days, our grief and how we’re learning to live differently now. I’ve tried to preserve some sense of normality, slowly relearning how to notice beauty again: my children’s laughter, the way they play together, my eldest’s gentleness, my youngest’s humour. These tiny ‘micro joys’ don’t erase grief, but they soften it.

I’ve become intentional about caring for my body: eating well (without banning chocolate), limiting alcohol because it fuels anxiety, using magnesium, cacao, fresh pyjamas and prioritising sleep. Running, walking the dog, even the responsibility of caring for her keeps me moving. I’ve poured hours into DIY at home, creating a calm, safe space for the three of us. None of it replaces a husband or a father, but together these small acts have helped us survive – and slowly, gently, begin to live again.

“Love still hangs quietly between the lights…”

As Christmas approaches, I’m leaning on perspective. Christmas is one occasion, even if the season stretches for months and feels overwhelming. This year, I’m choosing to focus on what I can still enjoy: pretty lights, good food, a small amount of nice wine, and most of all the joy on my children’s faces. Their happiness will be my comfort.

I’m also removing pressure: if I need to cry, I will; if I can’t bring myself to send a Christmas message, that’s okay. Friends and family know I won’t manage many presents or cards this year, and thankfully they understand. I’ve learned how unpredictable grief is. My mood can shift quickly, and I may need to cancel plans at short notice – and I’m giving myself permission to do that without guilt. I won’t overfill our days either; too much noise and activity overwhelm all of us. Luckily the children are still young, which gives me some control over the pace of our Christmas.

And because I still want him to be a part of it somehow, I’ve bought tiny photo frames with little ribbons – ones we can hang on the tree. We’ll put photos of Daddy inside them. A small, gentle way of keeping him close. A reminder that even in this new version of life, love still hangs quietly between the lights.

This Christmas won’t be magical like before, but it will be real and honest. And maybe within it, there will be small, fleeting moments that help us breathe through the rest.”

You can find Astrid’s Instagram posts @astriddolan