When Everyone Else Goes Home

There's a particular kind of loneliness that happens around the holidays.

Not the kind where you're actually alone.

Sometimes I think that would be easier.

It's the kind where you're surrounded by people who love you, sitting in rooms you've sat in a hundred times, listening to the same stories and laughing at the same jokes—and somehow one missing person still manages to take up more space than everyone who showed up.

I'm going home for Christmas.

I've been looking forward to it. I really have.

I miss my family. I miss my own bed. I miss opening the refrigerator and finding food I didn't have to buy. I even miss the arguments that happen when too many people who love each other are trapped under one roof for too many days.

But I've also been dreading it.

Because home is where the memories live.

They're everywhere.

Not just in photographs.

In rooms.

In roads.

In places at the table.

There are years of my life there where he exists in the background of almost everything.

And I know nobody is going to say his name.

That's almost worse.

People get careful after your heart gets broken.

They stop telling stories that include the person who hurt you. They hesitate before mentioning something you all did together. They change the subject when a memory gets too close.

They're trying to protect you.

I know that.

But sometimes being protected from someone's name makes their absence louder.

Because I remember.

I remember Christmas mornings.

I remember traditions that weren't officially ours but somehow became ours anyway.

I remember being young enough to believe that if you loved someone at Christmas, you'd probably still be loving them at every Christmas after.

That's the dangerous thing about being young and in love.

You don't realize you're creating memories you'll someday have to survive.

I've wondered what he's doing.

I wish I hadn't.

That's the embarrassing truth.

I've wondered where he'll wake up Christmas morning. I've wondered who he'll be with. I've wondered if anything will remind him of me.

And then I get angry with myself for wondering.

As if healing is supposed to mean I stop being curious about someone who was part of almost every important day of my life.

But maybe I don't need to punish myself for that.

Maybe wondering doesn't mean I want to go backward.

Maybe missing someone during a season built almost entirely from memories doesn't mean I've failed at moving forward.

It just means I'm human.

So I'm going home.

I'm going to sit at the table.

I'm going to laugh too loudly with my family. I'm going to eat things I don't eat any other time of year. I'm going to let myself remember whatever I remember without turning every memory into evidence that I haven't healed enough.

And if there's a moment when the room feels too full and too empty at the same time, I'll let that happen too.

Because this is my Christmas.

Not ours.

Mine.

Maybe that's the part I'm still learning.

You don't have to stop remembering the life you thought you'd have before you're allowed to enjoy the life that's actually happening.

Both things can exist in the same room.

You can miss someone and still laugh.

You can remember and still make new memories.

You can have a broken heart and still have a good Christmas.

One doesn't cancel out the other.

The holidays don't require you to prove how healed you are. Miss what you miss. Remember what you remember. Then look around at the people who are still there and let yourself be part of the life that's happening now.

Until next Tuesday.

— S.