A dose of depression.

"I'm sorry, I'm just feeling depressed."

The words floated from my mouth as Cory gently woke me up, telling me it was time to head up to bed. He had been wrapping gifts while I absent-mindedly flipped through a new cook book on the couch, shutting down emotionally and responding to his conversation with one-word answers and half smiles.

Earlier in the evening I was prickly and negative, nitpicking and criticizing any and all topics as we made our dinner plates and ate. It wasn't necessarily directed at Cory, just a general ho-hum, Ebenezer Scrooge vibe pointed at the world. Really great Christmas Eve Eve company.

Grief is sneaky, especially long term grief. As prepared as I always think I am in understanding it comes in waves, they still continue to blindside me. Of course the holidays are difficult. I think they are for everyone, regardless if grief is present or not.

There's so much pressure. So many expectations. Financial stress, travel, setting (or neglecting) boundaries, triggering old trauma, family dynamics.

Growing up we were never one of those divorced families who celebrated all together. Christmas was split between households. We would do Christmas Eve and Christmas morning at one house, then drive across town for round two of gifts and Christmas dinner at the other. Every year we would alternate who got which time slot. Recalling it back now makes it feel like such a business arrangement.

Regardless of who got Christmas Eve and who got the day, it was always difficult leaving my mom on her own when we went to my dad's. There was such a sting of guilt.

She'd ensure me she was fine and ready for some quiet time- always making a joke of things to make us feel better about going, but it never made it any easier. She was fiercely independent, but that doesn't mean she wasn't lonely.

Once I was in college I hated going home for breaks. Every trip back felt like Christmas, worrying over how much time was spent with each household. Making sure time was evenly divided and worrying about pleasing everyone else instead of attending to my own needs. It ultimately led to me withdrawing and going home less and less.

So I'm sitting here on Christmas Eve morning, sipping my coffee from the comfort of my couch while snow falls and the whistle of the train blows past our house. A truly idyllic Hallmark holiday movie setting. Kevin Bacon, our bulldog, snuggled up next to me snoring.

But I'm downhearted. I'm lonely and I'm missing my mom on our fifth Christmas without her. My family dynamic has changed drastically since her departure and I'm also mourning that loss.

I don't write all this to sulk in my misery. I have written many posts this year that have never been published, mostly because what I've realized I need is a personal outlet. They were all composed with the intent to see the light of day, but after giving them a day or so to marinate I never felt compelled to hit publish. I already got what I needed from the exercise.

This one is different, albeit not exactly the fluffy holiday content we usually consume this time of year. The ones I feel compelled to publish are the ones I hope offer something of value.

Earlier I wrote my proclamation of depression "floated" from my mouth. It came out in a hazed, unconscious state but it was a truth I needed to speak. In part I think it was because I was half awake and had chilled out, but also because I've worked so hard to be conscious of what I'm feeling and naming what I need.

When we're able to name how we're feeling we can immediately disarm the emotion. Simply the act of identifying feelings of depression can help loosen its grip. Acknowledging the looming grief allows us to move through it.

I know this because I've done exactly the opposite. I've buried emotions in order not to disrupt or make others feel uncomfortable. The first Christmas without my mom, I did this whole dog and pony show about truly wanting to go to my now husband's family home for the holiday. I was "fine", it was fair we did that because the previous year was spent with my family.

Obviously I wasn't fucking fine. My mom just died and I acted like it was nothing to be without her that year. Instead poor Cory paid the price as my suppressed emotions leaked out in profoundly unhealthy ways.

Point being, today I'm naming and sharing how I'm feeling with the world because it's going to help me navigate this difficult day with a clearer head (notice the clearER, not clear; we're all progress not perfection over here). I hope it creates space for any of you to do the same who need to.

Putting it all out there doesn't mean I'm done and everything's hunky dory. It does create space to acknowledge where I'm at and who I'm missing, and also allows me to give myself permission to enjoy the holiday without guilting myself for doing so.

I can miss the hell out of my mom and also enjoy the present moment. It's not either/or.

In my short years navigating holidays with grief I've found it does help to create a plan to honor your person ahead of time, be it small and personal or a grand acknowledgement of their absence. We've lit candles, done the whole empty chair thing and I've even made everyone pass around a piece of paper with their designated lines to read.

This year, I'm hitting publish on this post and heading to the kitchen to make Eliza's Yucky Old Ginger Snaps. Great Grandma Kathryn's recipe Mom always made. I'll snap a photo of the recipe and include it below for anyone looking to invite Snooze into their celebrations this Christmas.

Later tonight we'll go over to my brother- and sister-in-law's where we'll get to celebrate with their two little nuggets they so generously share with Cory and me. Matching PJ's, cookies for Santa...the whole shebang getting to experience the magic of Christmas through the eyes of a three- and four-year-old.

Whatever the circumstances and your means of celebrating, I hope you can acknowledge the hard stuff to make room for the joy. We all deserve it.

Merry Christmas.