Navigating Celebrations After Loss

Ebony McMullen, the protagonist of The Colors of Home, has been living in my head for years, and she's ready to share what it really means to rebuild a life from broken pieces. Her voice deserves space beyond the novel's pages. This is her second blog post.

The invitation arrived in my mailbox on a Tuesday. A cream-colored cardstock with elegant script announcing my friend's wedding. Save the date. Mark your calendars. Join us for this joyous occasion.

I held the card in my hand and felt my chest tighten. Joy. Celebration. Dancing and toasting, and people gathered to witness love beginning.

How am I supposed to celebrate anything when my world just ended?

Four months since Michael died. Four months of learning to breathe through the weight in my chest, to function through the fog in my brain, to smile at people who asked how I was doing and expected an answer other than the truth.

And now they wanted me at a wedding.

Life doesn't stop for grief. Birthdays still come. Holidays still arrive. Weddings still happen.

The First Holiday Breaks You

I thought I'd prepared for the first Thanksgiving without Michael.

I knew it would hurt. I knew his empty chair at the table would feel like a black hole. I knew someone would start to set his place before remembering. I knew I'd cry.

What I didn't know; the anger.

Angry at people for laughing like nothing had changed. Angry at my children for existing in this nightmare I couldn't wake them from. Enraged at the turkey and stuffing for existing as if the world hadn't just ended.

The first holiday taught me something. You can't prepare for how it will feel. You can only survive it.

Survival looks different for everyone. Some people need to keep traditions the same. Others may need to start new or even skip it entirely.

All of it works. No right way exists to get through the first holiday.

You Get to Choose Your Boundaries

After Michael died, I started saying no to things I would have felt obligated to attend before. Birthday parties where I'd have to pretend I felt fine. Events where I'd watch people's intact families and feel the absence of mine. I said no. Not to be difficult. But because I knew my limits.

Some people understood, while others didn't.

I'm learning that people's opinions about how you grieve don’t matter. What matters is showing up when and where you can. You get to decide what you can handle. And you owe no one an explanation.

Some Celebrations Surprise You

My friend's wedding, the one I dreaded, turned out to be one of the better days of a terrible first year.

I almost didn't go. But something in me said, Go. Try.

So I did. Brought Destiny as my date.

And it hurt. Watching the happy couple. Feeling Michael's absence like a physical ache. But it also held beauty. Because love existed there, present and real. Destiny danced with abandon and made me laugh.

Afterward, Destiny said, "Daddy would have liked this wedding."

She spoke truth. And somehow, showing up, even broken, felt like honoring him. Not every celebration will surprise you like this. Some will hurt as much as you feared. But some might offer you a glimpse of something you didn't know you needed.

It Doesn't Get Easier Yet

What I'm learning is celebrations after loss don't match celebrations before. They can't. But they can still hold meaning. I'm learning to be selective. To show up when I can and skip it when I can't. There's no right way to do this. My way, imperfect and messy, changes day by day.

Honoring Michael doesn't mean refusing to live. It means carrying him with me, even into celebrations. Holding grief and joy in the same hand.

Some days I can do this. Some days I can't.

And both work.