Since my early 30s, Christmas has been a season of discomfort, of feeling like I don’t quite belong, and of being an outsider. As someone who was single not by choice, the holidays became a reminder of what I didn’t have—a partner to share traditions with and a sense of belonging. I felt increasingly different from my family. I no longer found it fun to overindulge in alcohol, the jokes often felt hurtful, and my lack of children magnified a growing sense of being out of place at the dinner table. Yet I’ve come to understand that much of that feeling came from within. Though I loved my family deeply, I realized I needed the freedom to create my own traditions in my own way.
In search of meaning, travel became my escape and a new source of freedom—sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Each trip offered breathtaking beauty and rich experiences. At first, I relished the independence—being able to do what I wanted, when I wanted. But little by little, as I stood in awe of these incredible places, I began to long for someone to share them with. Moments like watching a loved-up couple in a spa overlooking a stunning beach—so lost in each other they were practically making love in front of me—didn’t help either. Over time, the ache of loneliness quietly crept in, I just wanted to share it all with someone I loved.
When I met my husband in my late 30s, I hoped the holidays might transform into something brighter. Together, we continued to travel when it was safe to do so, though trying to conceive (TTC) brought its own complications. Exotic locations, long flights, and the risk of diseases were no longer compatible with our plans. And the holidays presented new challenges. My husband’s journey as a recovering alcoholic meant that traditional celebrations, often centered around excess, weren’t safe for us. Instead, we sought quieter moments of connection, away from the noise and expectations of the season.
During our years of trying to conceive, Christmas became a fragile blend of hope and heartbreak. Losing our first pregnancy just before the holidays made that Christmas unbearably painful. Like many we already started to imagine our little family around the Christmas tree, and it to be shattered days before was both emotionally and physically hard. Yet my cultural upbringing taught me that sadness had a time limit—around two weeks—and after that, I was expected to carry on, to be strong, and to focus on others. That year, I just felt numb, frozen like snowy mountain we retreated to... It took three months of keeping everything locked inside before the ice around my emotions finally began to thaw. When the anger came, it hit hard—I anger is my doorway to sadness. I screamed out the words that had been buried: "I just feel so f**ing empty inside"..
Fast forward two years: my last IVF treatment failed, and in November 2019, we became permanently childless. At the time, I didn’t even recognize I was grieving—I just felt like nothing mattered. That year, for the holidays, we planned a trip to Hong Kong and the Philippines, determined to start living again, to make the most of our lives without children, and to look on the bright side while conveniently bypassing the pain. But even in the beauty of those beaches, grief found me. The cliché that you take your problems with you proved true for me. I felt emptier and more lost there than I had two years earlier after my miscarriage. I didn’t know the point of it all. And yet, I don’t regret going. The nature and change of scenery provided a small but much-needed distraction.
2020 was a low point. I got Covid on Christmas Eve, and because it wasn’t safe to walk the dogs, the girls went off to my in-laws. I begged to keep Rocco, I needed someone to hug and arranged for the dog walker to come by once a day to take him out. I felt alone, sad, and miserable.
The turning point came slowly, as most profound changes do. Over time, I began to make space for the darkness instead of running from it. I founded my CNBC community, and about a year later, things started to feel just a tiny bit lighter. I found safe spaces where I could be myself, share my grief, and connect with others who truly understood. Together, we shared the ache of that picture-perfect dream of celebrating the holidays with our beautiful babies. We cried, screamed, and laughed together, holding space for one another in ways that felt healing and real.
The turning point came slowly, as most profound changes do. Over time, I began to make space for the darkness instead of running from it. I founded my CNBC community, and about a year later, things started to feel just a tiny bit lighter. I found safe spaces where I could be myself, share my grief, and connect with others who truly understood. Together, we shared the ache of that picture-perfect dream of celebrating the holidays with our beautiful babies. We cried, screamed, and laughed together, holding space for one another in ways that felt healing and real.
From the low point of 2020, with the support of this community, I began to create new traditions that reflected where I was, not where I thought I should be. I looked for things that brought me peace and/or felt fun. I bought a Christmas tree, dressed up my dogs in festive outfits, explored nature, and enjoyed the sparkle of Christmas light shows. I learned to honor my grief while leaning into the simple joys of good food, quiet moments, and safe connections. Little by little, these became the foundation of holidays that feel authentic and meaningful to me.
Last year was the first time I would say that I embraced Christmas rather than avoided it. We ventured to the Christmas wonderland of New York, and for the first time, I felt a lightness I hadn’t known since I was a child. I allowed myself to play—ice skating, a horse-drawn carriage ride. I met face-to-face for the first time with some wonderful childless people from this community. I wrote my dreams of healing and recognition for our community on little pieces of paper to be dropped over Times Square. I gave myself permission to sit with the heartache of what could have been and enjoy what is.
There is no time limit. Grief has no clock. Childlessness is a living loss. I see our oldest dog getting frail, and I know my grief will resurface harder when she passes, and that is normal and natural (multiple losses at this time of year really suck). Grief has its own rhythm, and from the shadows, new things can grow. I’ve learned that it’s okay to create new traditions, to honor the past while welcoming the present.
My Christmas wish for you: Be you and do you. If you want to avoid it all, do that. If you want to embrace it all, do that. Ignore the clock—grief cannot tell time. And know, you are not alone.
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