This month marks a series of "firsts" for me.
It'll be the first December that I'll spend Christmas without my husband. It'll also be the first December that I'll celebrate our anniversary alone.
In the past, he and I spent most of the month walking hand-in-hand through Christmas markets in Europe, laughing, sipping apple cider and buying presents for our loved ones. But in February he died, so this year has been different.
While I still appreciate the beauty of the holidays, I've found myself choking back tears and trying to swallow golf-ball-sized lumps in the back of my throat.
Coming from a huge Italian family, I was never short of people to spend the holidays with. I never thought about the people who had to spend Christmas alone until I became one of them.
Now, I wonder: How can you suddenly hate a certain time a year that you once loved so much?
So this December, I've been finding ways to recapture joy and continue the healing journey that I've been on since my husband's death — one that's taken me to a place I'd never expected.
A therapist's take on holiday grief
Why did I put up my Christmas tree to only want to light a match to it? I put that question to Lori Gottlieb, a psychotherapist and author of the New York Times bestseller Maybe You Should Talk to Someone.
Gottlieb says it's not about hating the holiday, but about loss.
"What you hate is the fact that the person isn't there, not the thing that you used to do," says Gottlieb. "It may not be fun now, but the activity isn't something that you hate. It's the fact that you have to do it now without the person you love."
Facing the holidays without my husband has made me feel like a spectator on the sidelines, watching other people take part in the festivities that used to bring us joy.
"it looks like everybody out there has everything they want and it's a time of great happiness and I think that that adds to the isolation … But the reality is if you pick out people in that crowd there's a good percentage of them who are going through something similar to what you are," says Gottlieb.
Finding joy in 'pinpricks of light'
In the months after my husband's death, I've received a lot of advice on how to "deal" with grief, but only one piqued my interest.
I was gently encouraged to start looking for pinpricks of light throughout my day. I was told that they could be anything — my favorite cup of tea, a new pair of shoes, my favorite flowers, or a walk in the woods.
I shrugged and half-heartedly agreed to try.
My journey with grief took me to Welwyn Garden City, a small town outside of London. When I first visited this past June, I was immediately struck by the city's beauty: the tranquil fountains, colorful flower beds, perfectly landscaped trees and shrubs that lined the town's center. Think Hallmark movie meets an episode of Gilmore Girls.
People smiled and said "cheers" as you passed them. It was the first sense of peace that I'd had in months.
This city is known for its beautiful wooded trails. On the second day of the trip, I set out for Sherrardspark Woods — and along the path there, a glint of light from an old oak tree caught my eye.
Lying at its base was a pink wand with iridescent streamers that were blowing in the wind. Next to it was a plastic box with a note on top that read, "leave a note for the fairies." The box was filled with messages, mainly from children, but also from people asking the fairies to help guide them through their grief.
Figurines, hand-painted rocks and other trinkets lined the base of the tree along with a little wooden door carved in the trunk. For the first time in months, I smiled.
For the rest of the trip, I made it my daily routine to walk past the fairy tree to look for new additions. A few times I stopped to ask the locals about its origin, but the only thing I found out was that it popped up during the pandemic.
I've since returned to Welwyn Garden City, and I've continued to try to figure out who's decorating the tree — I even left a note in the box asking the creator to email me. I never got a reply. And maybe that's for the better. Maybe knowing would take away its mystique.
Why does this fairy tree nestled in this small English town mean so much to me? Honestly, I'm still not sure. For whatever reason, it made me feel something good, for once. It cracked me open and, in turn, opened a portal to the "good stuff:" the few, but extremely powerful points of light.
Sadly, I won't be able to go see the fairy tree this Christmas, though I've asked my best friend who lives nearby to send pictures. But moving ahead, I will smile when I think of the tree and the forces that lead me to it.
Thinking back on those glimmers that I found in such an unexpected place will comfort me on Christmas Day. They've put me on a journey that I hope one day will lead me back there. It was a magical place to begin healing, trusting and ultimately letting go.
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