A Mother’s Heart on Christmas

Not because the season has changed — but because my heart has.

Tomorrow will be the first Christmas since my son was born that he won’t wake up under the same roof as me. And no matter how much I try to prepare myself, nothing really prepares you for that quiet. For the absence of footsteps, laughter, and the familiar rhythm of a morning that’s always belonged to us.

I know he’s okay. I know this doesn’t change how much he loves me or how deeply connected we are. But knowing that doesn’t stop the ache. It doesn’t stop the sadness that settles in when I think about coming home from work and realizing he won’t be there waiting.

This kind of grief is strange. It isn’t about loss in the traditional sense — it’s about missing something sacred. Something that has been part of my identity as a mother for over a decade. Christmas morning wasn’t just a holiday. It was us.

I feel strong and fragile at the same time. I’m proud of myself for holding it together for him, for doing what’s best, for continuing forward even when it hurts. But I’m also allowing myself to admit that this is hard. That loving deeply comes with moments that feel unbearably heavy.

This Christmas Eve, I’m learning that sadness doesn’t mean failure. It means love. It means attachment. It means that the bond we share is real and enduring — even when circumstances change.

And while this morning will look different, the love doesn’t disappear. It waits. It carries on. It finds its way back to us again