A.S. Thorne

This season is supposed to be full of glow.
At least, that’s the myth we were handed — twinkle lights, warm hugs, full tables.
But the truth is quieter, and heavier, for so many of us.

Because sometimes the holidays arrive carrying their own kind of grief.

Maybe this year, it looks like a hospital room instead of a living room — the steady beep of machines filling the silence where laughter used to be.
Maybe it looks like holding a phone in your hand, waiting for updates, wishing you could trade places, wishing you could fix what you can’t even touch.

Maybe you keep catching yourself glancing at a spot at the table — the one that still feels like it belongs to someone who isn’t here anymore.
Grief has a way of echoing the loudest during celebrations.

And maybe, for some, it looks like trauma surfacing without warning — a scent, a song, a memory pulling you back into places you’ve worked so hard to climb out of.

For others, it’s the quiet ache of someone who should be walking through the front door but can’t.
Deployment.
Addiction.
Estrangement.
Burdens too big to name.
Wounds too tender to prod.

And for some… it’s simply the pressure.
The expectation to smile.
To show up.
To sparkle.
To somehow become a holiday version of yourself even when your heart feels like it’s running on fumes.

If you’re hurting this season —
if you’re grieving, or scared, or stretched thin —
I want you to know this:

You are not alone.
You are not failing.
You are not the only one holding tears just off-stage.

The world doesn’t pause for our heartbreaks, and yet our hearts break anyway.
And still — still — you’re waking up every day and doing your best with the pieces you have left.

Maybe your holiday doesn’t look like it used to.
Maybe it never has.
Maybe all you can manage is showing up in the smallest ways — a deep breath in the hallway, a whispered “I miss you,” a moment of stillness while the world keeps spinning fast.

That counts.
It all counts.

You don’t owe the season anything but your honesty.

Light a candle for the ones you miss.
Hold close the ones you’re fighting for.
Let yourself cry on the drive home from the hospital.
Take a walk if your chest feels too tight.
Wrap yourself in memories if that’s all you have this year.

And if joy feels far away, that’s okay.
Some years are for surviving.
Some years are for remembering.
Some years are for holding onto hope with trembling hands.

But hear me:
Your heart — even cracked, even weary — is still a heart worth protecting.

And somewhere in all this heaviness, there is a quiet kind of courage blooming in you.
The kind that keeps going.
The kind that loves fiercely.
The kind that sits beside sorrow and still believes in tomorrow.

I’m holding space with you in this tender in-between.
For your grandfather.
For your grandmother’s memory.
For your family’s ache.
For everyone who feels the empty chair before they see the full table.

You don’t have to shine to be worthy of the season.
Being here — in whatever way you can — is enough.
You are enough.

This year has been heavy for so many families — mine included. Grief and hope have been sitting side by side at our table, and I know we’re not the only ones feeling that ache. If you’re carrying more than you expected this season, I hope these words meet you gently and remind you that hurting doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human. And you deserve tenderness, especially now.

🖤 A.S. Thorne

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🕯️Before You Go…

If your heart is hurting this holiday season, share a name, a memory, or a word of what you’re holding. Let’s create a small space of remembrance and comfort together.