The Empty Chair: A Real-Talk Guide to Grief During the Holidays

The holidays have a way of turning the volume up on everything—joy, stress, nostalgia, and the particular ache that shows up when someone you love isn’t here. You can have laughter and longing in the same breath. That doesn’t make you broken; it makes you human. If there’s an empty chair at your table this year (literally or metaphorically), this is your permission slip to handle the season on your terms.

From an ACT/CBT angle, grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a love story that keeps rippling through your life. The work isn’t to “get over it,” it’s to make room for it—sensations, memories, jolts of sadness—and still move toward what matters: connection, meaning, rest, honesty. When your mind throws outdated rules at you—Be strong. Don’t ruin it for others. It’s been long enough.—you don’t have to argue with those thoughts. You can notice them, name them (“Ah, the ‘be strong’ story again”), and then choose what’s kind and workable for today.

Let’s make that practical.

Build a small ritual that fits your reality

Rituals are containers. They give grief a place to sit so it doesn’t have to run the whole room. Pick one simple practice and let it be enough.

Maybe you set an extra plate with a candle. You pause for sixty seconds before dinner and let anyone who wants to say a sentence: a favorite memory, a joke, a quiet thank-you. No speeches, no pressure. Or hang a memory ornament with their handwriting or a photo and take a breath while you do it. Or write them a short note and slip it into your coat pocket before you leave for a party. You don’t need a Pinterest moment. You need something that says, I remember. I’m allowed to.

If the loss is fresher, go even smaller. Make a playlist of “us” songs and let one of them play while you make coffee. Light a candle at the same time every evening for a week. Stand by a window and say, out loud, one thing you miss and one thing you’re grateful still exists. These micro-rituals are surprisingly steadying because they’re doable. And if a ritual doesn’t fit next year? Retire it without guilt. Grief evolves; your rituals can too.

Keep, change, or skip: you get to choose

Traditions can either soothe or sandpaper your nerves. The test is simple: after you imagine doing it, do you feel a little more spacious or a little more trapped? If it’s spacious, keep it. If it’s trapped, change something—location, timing, length, who’s there. If even that feels like too much, skip it this year. “We’re doing a smaller version at home” is a complete sentence.

One of my favorite moves is the trial year. Tell people, “We’re experimenting with a quieter holiday this time. We’ll see how it feels and reassess next year.” That de-pressurizes everything. You’re not announcing a permanent stance; you’re taking care of your nervous system in a hard season.

What to say when people say clumsy things

Most folks mean well; they’re just bad at grief. You don’t have to educate everyone, and you also don’t have to swallow every comment whole. A few lines help:

• “Thanks for caring. Today’s a tender day and I’m keeping it simple.”

• “I appreciate the love. I’m not up for advice, but I’ll take a hug.”

• “I know you’re trying to help. ‘At least…’ isn’t landing for me.”

• “I’m stepping away for a minute. I’ll be back.”

Short, warm, done. If someone keeps poking, you’re allowed to opt out: “I’m not discussing this right now.” Then go get air. You’re not rude; you’re protecting a bruise.

Give your body a say

Grief lives in the body—tight throat, hollow stomach, heavy shoulders, glassy fatigue. Treat your body like someone you’re responsible for. That might mean leaving the party at 9:30 instead of 11:00, drinking water like it’s your job, or taking a brisk ten-minute walk before guests arrive. Anxiety ramping? Two minutes of longer exhales (inhale 4, exhale 6) sends a real, physiological “downshift” to your system. None of this is curing grief. It’s making room for it without letting it run you into the ground.

Sleep deserves its own sentence: protect it. Sadness at midnight bends toward catastrophizing. You don’t need to solve your life at 12:17 AM. Give yourself a simple landing ritual—dim lights, hot shower, phone out of reach, a paragraph of a familiar book. If tears come in bed, let them. Crying is not failure; it’s pressure leaving the system.

The “grief burst” plan

Grief rarely schedules itself. It hits in the aisle with the wrapping paper or mid-toast. Expect ambushes. Have a tiny plan:

1. Name it: “Wave.”

2. Ground: feel your feet, look for three blue objects, exhale longer than you inhale.

3. Choose a micro-step: step outside, sit on the stairs, text a friend a single heart emoji.

4. Re-enter only when your breath is steady enough to talk.

That’s not avoidance. That’s steering.

If you’re hosting, host like a human

Lower the bar to something sustainable. Cater part of it. Make dessert the only homemade thing. Tell people your end time when they arrive: “I’m glad you’re here; I’m wrapping at 9:00.” If the empty chair is in your house, it’s okay to say, “We’re keeping it smaller this year.” You are not a museum honoring perfect Christmases Past. You are a person who lost someone, doing your best in real time.

Conversations you might need to have with yourself

Your mind will pitch you stories: If I laugh, I’m disloyal. If I cry, I’ll ruin it. If I don’t show up, I’m selfish. Notice them as stories. Then check your values. What would your person want for you tonight—stoic martyrdom or permission to be human? Most of our people would happily vote for permission. It’s okay to feel joy without apologizing to your grief, and it’s okay to feel grief without apologizing to joy. They can pass the mic back and forth.

When grief is complicated (because life was complicated)

Not every loss is tidy. Maybe your relationship had sharp edges. Holidays can stir guilt, anger, or relief. You are still allowed your ritual, your tears, your laughter. If mixed feelings show up, let them sit in the room. You don’t need to edit your heart to make other people comfortable.

Red flags that mean you need more support

Pain is expected. But if you notice weeks of near-total shutdown; relentless hopelessness; drinking or other numbing climbing hard; panic you can’t get under control; or thoughts about not wanting to be here—get help now. Call a therapist, tell your doctor, loop in a friend who shows up, or, if you’re in immediate danger, call 988. There’s courage in not doing this alone.

A note on memory and meaning

You don’t keep someone alive by suffering perfectly. You keep them alive by telling their stories, making the recipe badly the first time, laughing at the thing they always laughed at, and letting pieces of them keep shaping how you love. If you feel that sting when the chair is empty, it’s because the bond is real. Let that be a kind of warmth, even when it hurts.

If you want help tailoring all of this—choosing rituals, holding boundaries with family, navigating the ambush moments—that’s the work I do every day at NuWave Counseling LLC. But you don’t need a therapist to start. You can choose one small ritual, one kind boundary, one early night, and one honest breath. That’s enough for today. Tomorrow can introduce itself when it gets here.