My son died in a ski accident at age 9. He is still part of our holiday traditions.

• My son William died in a ski accident in 2019 at age 9.
• I'm still his mom, and honor him during the holidays, even though he is not physically present.
• Acts of service and open conversations help navigate grief and foster connection at gatherings.

As the first Christmas after my son William's death approached, I couldn't bear the thought of putting up a Christmas tree. I couldn't imagine displaying all the nutcrackers we had collected together. I couldn't walk into our usual family gathering pretending to be OK. I was petrified of being watched, being whispered about, and being pitied by the other guests. I knew their concern would come from a place of love, but I just didn't want anyone else to witness my holiday grief.

So, we decided not to go.

We booked flights to San Francisco, the city where William was born. We drove up the coast to a small house by the ocean. We didn't decorate. We didn't invite anyone over. We just gave ourselves permission to be sad.

Our first Christmas after loss

Back then, I wasn't a bereavement expert or a grief advocate. I was a mother with no guidebook, suddenly living inside a story I never wanted to read. So we followed our instincts and did what felt best for us, without worrying how those around us would feel. Truth be told, that first Christmas was awful. We could barely find a reason to smile, and we all cried at different points throughout the day, but at least it was on our terms.

If you know someone who is grieving profound loss, remember: their need to change things isn't a rejection of family or love. It's self-preservation. They may need to escape, be alone, or decline the usual celebrations. Don't take it personally. Offer them the space and grace to do what they need to survive.

He will always be a part of our holidays

In the years since that first holiday season after William's death, we've come back to a lot of our past traditions. Some years we visit family, some years we see friends, some years we even host. But it will always be different, and as time has progressed, I have learned to accept that.

And yet, despite being different, William will always be a part of our holidays. I set a place for him at the Thanksgiving table. His stocking hangs on the mantle right next to his living brothers'. I light candles for him and speak his name out loud.

If you're attending a gathering where someone is grieving a loss, avoid avoiding the subject. Speak their name and bring them into the room. Silence is so much worse than almost anything you could say. Push past your own discomfort and make the griever feel at ease. Ask questions about their person, like "What was their favorite holiday treat?" or "What did they love about this season?"

We, the bereaved, ache to tell these stories. Our loved ones aren't secrets to be put away during the holidays. They are part of what makes these days so special.

We give to others in his honor

I've found that giving outside yourself can be a really helpful way to cope during the holiday season. Loss can make your world feel small and self-contained. Being of service expands it.

William's birthday is right before Christmas, so that first year we organized a toy drive for a local nonprofit. We asked his friends, who would have been giving him a birthday present, to donate gifts for children in need. Dropping off bags of toys for those kids filled my heart in a way nothing else did that season.

You too can fill a void if your holidays feel empty. Volunteer at a food pantry. Run a coat drive. Bake cookies for your neighbors. The simple act of showing up for others can profoundly heal your heart.

Joy and sorrow can happen at the same time

Often, when we see people laugh after loss, we assume they're "over it." But laughter doesn't mean you've moved on. It means you're human.

You can cry over the casserole that doesn't quite taste like mom used to make, and then laugh, remembering how she always spilled something on her new dress. You can miss the person who's gone and still share joy with those who remain.

Joy and sorrow can coexist. For me, the holidays will always carry both the ache of missing William and the beauty of remembering him with my living children. So this season, if there's an empty chair at your table, let it hold meaning. Let it be a symbol of enduring love, of a connection that time can't erase. Light a cancel, say their name, share their story.