The first holiday season without a loved one is an emotional journey that defies easy expression, and this year, I find myself struggling to adequately convey how it feels to experience the holidays without my wife, Sarah.
While putting up the Christmas tree this year, I came across an ornament I hadn’t thought about in years — two gingerbread people with our names written on them. I remember exactly where Sarah and I were when we bought it: at the Canadian National Exhibition in 2006, just a few months into our relationship. The memory was so vivid — and yet, it feels like a lifetime ago. Since then, we experienced so much together — the birth of our two children, buying a second home, family trips, new jobs, surviving a pandemic, and, of course, the battle with cancer that took Sarah from us in September.
Another ornament I found was one from our honeymoon in Orlando in 2010 — Mickey and Minnie Mouse dressed for a wedding. That one took me by surprise, and I cried for a good 30 minutes while decorating the tree. The weight of those memories hit me in waves.
Sarah loved Christmas. While we weren’t a religious family, she embraced the holidays with an infectious enthusiasm. She cherished the decorations, the carols, the togetherness. Every year, she’d take December 1st off from work to start decorating the house — a task no one could help with because, to her, every ornament, every branch of the tree, had to be perfect. It was the only way she believed the magic of the season could truly come alive.
I can still hear her singing Christmas carols from the living room as I worked from my desk in the basement. That image, and the sound of her voice, are etched in my memory.
But this year, I also realized that it was time to create new traditions. This year, it was about healing, moving forward, and living again — while still honoring Sarah’s memory. My kids and I decorated the house together. We went Christmas shopping. We made spontaneous decisions about which holiday movies to watch. Our elves seemed to be extra creative this year too, building a zipline and putting together a “Magical Poop-seum” with droppings from enchanted creatures.
On Christmas and Hanukkah — Christmakkah — we ripped open presents with excitement, gathered with family, stuffed ourselves with delicious food, and truly embraced the joy of the moment.
I know it’s hard for people who haven’t experienced such profound loss to fully understand the complexities of this season. But we’re doing OK. We haven’t forgotten Sarah, and we’re not moving on from her — far from it. We talk about her every day, sometimes with a sense of sentimentality, and sometimes with humor, joking about how she would have handled a situation differently.
This holiday season has been a balance of honoring Sarah’s memory, starting new traditions, and learning to appreciate the bittersweetness of life. I now look at the tree with a sense of gratitude and love, no longer overwhelmed by hurt, but filled with appreciation.
And as the new year approaches, I feel a renewed sense of hope, dreams, and promise for what lies ahead.
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