The Day After

Christmas is over.

Technically.

The tree is still up. There are still presents scattered around the house and leftovers taking up half the refrigerator. Someone will keep turning the Christmas lights on every night until at least New Year's because nobody in this family is emotionally prepared to admit the holiday is actually finished.

But the part everyone waits for is over.

And I made it.

I know that sounds dramatic.

It's Christmas, not a natural disaster.

But if you've ever gone through the first holiday after losing someone you thought would be part of all of them, you probably understand.

I spent so much time worrying about yesterday.

I wondered what it would feel like to wake up here without him.

I wondered which traditions would hurt.

I wondered whether someone would accidentally say his name and whether I'd be okay if they did.

I wondered if he would think about me.

That one followed me around more than I'd like to admit.

Christmas morning came anyway.

And it was...good.

Not good in the way Christmas used to be.

Different good.

My family was loud. Someone complained about breakfast. Someone stole someone else's seat. Wrapping paper ended up everywhere even though there was a trash bag approximately three feet away.

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not the kind I've gotten good at doing when I don't want anyone asking if I'm okay.

The real kind.

And then, right in the middle of it, I thought about him.

For a second, everything inside me went quiet.

I remembered other Christmases.

I remembered what it felt like when I thought there would be a hundred more.

And I waited for the sadness to ruin the moment.

It didn't.

It was there.

But so was everything else.

That's new.

For months, sadness has had this way of taking over the entire room. If I missed him, then suddenly that was all I could feel. It didn't matter what else was happening.

Yesterday, I missed him and I was happy.

At the same time.

I didn't know I could do that.

Maybe that's what healing actually looks like.

Not replacing one feeling with another.

Making room for more than one.

I can be sad about what happened and grateful for what I still have.

I can miss the boy who spent Christmases with my family and know I wouldn't take back the choices that brought us here.

I can remember something beautiful without pretending the ending was beautiful too.

And apparently, I can have a good day without feeling guilty about it afterward.

That last one might be the biggest surprise.

Because somewhere along the way, I think I started believing that being okay meant what happened hadn't mattered enough.

Like if I laughed too hard or went too long without thinking about him, I was somehow rewriting our story.

I'm beginning to understand that pain isn't proof of love.

I don't have to keep hurting to prove that I once loved someone.

What we had mattered.

It can matter forever.

But I don't have to be miserable forever because it ended.

Last night, after everyone went to bed, I sat in the living room by myself for a while.

The tree was still lit.

The house was quiet.

And I realized I wasn't waiting for anything.

I wasn't waiting for my phone to light up.

I wasn't imagining some Christmas miracle where everything suddenly made sense.

I wasn't wondering whether he'd call.

I was just sitting there.

In my life.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

Maybe that's the gift I didn't know I needed this year.

Not getting something back.

Realizing I can be okay without it.

Healing doesn't mean the memories stop mattering. It means they can sit beside the life you're building without taking it over. You don't have to keep hurting to prove that what you felt was real.

Until next Tuesday.

— S.