This time last year, I was six months pregnant and celebrating my first Christmas as a Mom. Every ounce of me bubbling over with anticipation at the prospect of all the future family traditions and whimsical Christmas mornings we would experience with our little girl. The holidays had taken on a new life. There was something so captivating in the thought of being able to spark delight and Christmas wonder in my own child, just as my parents had done for me year after year growing up. As a parent, I saw the holiday season with a renewed love and utter sense of excitement.  

There was a time when I couldn’t imagine Christmas without her. A time where I dreamed of writing letters to Santa and tripping over piles of ribbon and paper strewn across the floor. We’d sing carols, put up stockings and bake cookies. I imagined her eyes lighting up as we string lights and hang ornaments on the tree. I could hear her little feet pitter pattering into our bedroom eager to wake us up to see what surprises awaited on Christmas morning.

Now, here I stand with empty arms. Facing my first Christmas as a grieving Mother.  Here I am, staring the holiday season in the face and still struggling to grasp the enormity of it. I don’t know how I will survive the magnitude of all the dashed dreams and firsts that will come crashing down around me over and over again. I find myself bracing for a for a storm but not knowing when and how hard it will hit, only sensing it’s going to hurt like hell. And I suspect that many of the wounds that I’ve so carefully tended and patched over the past several months will be shredded and ripped open hundreds of times during the next few weeks.

I debate curling up in a dark corner and not coming out until all the celebrating is over. I want to cover my ears with my hands and scream at the top my lungs in an effort to drown out the jubilee. I want to pretend the holidays don’t exist. I pray that I will be able to trick myself into believing that no one else is celebrating, that no one else will get to see the beaming smiles, hear the squeals of excitement and receive the sleepy-eyed snuggles by the fireplace.  “Her first real Christmas and she is gone. She’s supposed to be here, she needs to be here,” is all I can stand to mutter.

The holidays have lost their enchantment. The lights no longer twinkle and the colorful decorations exist now only in shades of gray. The dreams I once had of perfect family holidays are merely ghosts of what should have been. My carefully thought out Christmas traditions have been heartbreakingly altered so we can include and honor our precious angel.  And instead of being greeted by love and laughter on Christmas morning, I will wake up to silence. The gifts for our sweet Savannah sitting unopened under the tree.

The carefree smiles and joy that once came so easily are gone only to be replaced with a heavy contempt towards those families who get to celebrate with their living, breathing children. How I wish I could be like those other families. I often wonder if they realize how lucky they are.    

This is not how I imagined things would ever be.  And I wish I had the perfect advice on how to survive this most joyful time of year; a time of year where, it seems, the world forgets that hearts can still be broken. If I could, I would gently wrap up all of your hearts to protect them from the laughter and cheer that will send tears down your cheeks and make you long for your forever babies. I am sorry that I can’t. But I will stand with you in remembering them this Christmas. I will watch you love and honor them in all the ways that bring comfort to your heart. And, I will recognize that there are no parents more deserving of a peaceful and gentle holiday season than those who celebrate with the children they cannot hold.  

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Amy Cirksena

Amy lives in the suburbs of Washington D.C. with her incredible husband, Jason, and their cat, Ziggy. Their beloved daughter, Savannah Grace, was stillborn at 39 weeks on March 29, 2016.

Amy continues to search for ways to build purpose and promise back into her life as she fights to honor the memory, and story, of her only child.

Latest posts by Amy Cirksena (see all)

• One Whole Year - May 22, 2017
• Dear Grief Bully - February 27, 2017
• Indescribable - January 18, 2017