My son has an Advent calendar on our kitchen table. Every morning in December, he tears open another door with pure ten-year-old joy. But this year, he’s not just counting down to Christmas, he’s counting down to December 23 — the day we leave for London.

I have a calendar, too, though mine isn’t decorated with glitter and chocolate. My calendar also counts down to December 23, six years since I found him. Six years since “widow” became a word that applied to me. Six years of being the only parent. On December 23, my son and I will board a plane on the anniversary of the day my husband died — and my son thinks we’re just going on an adventure.

This is parenting while grieving: Holding space for his countdown while holding your breath through your own. Being the keeper of Christmas magic while surviving the anniversary of your world ending. Some mornings, I watch my son rush to that Advent calendar, chattering about double-decker buses, and I wonder how I’m supposed to feel. Should I be proud that he still believes in wonder, or gutted that his most anticipated day is the one that shattered me?

The first Christmas without his dad came two days after he died. I was still numb, moving through the motions in shock. My son was four years old, tearing into presents from Santa and delighted by new toys, all while I sat on the couch wondering if any of this was real. He was too young to understand that everything had changed. I was present enough to make sure the magic happened, but absent enough that I don’t remember most of it.

The second Christmas, I tried to make it as normal as possible. We took holiday photos, saw the Christmas lights, and booked a staycation. I nearly broke myself trying to be both parents, to fill a space that wasn’t meant for one person. By New Year’s Day, I was hollow.

The third Christmas, I did something radical: I left. I packed our bags and booked a flight to somewhere with no memories embedded in the walls. Just me, my son, and the permission to build something new. That first trip wasn’t about running away; it was about choosing to move forward. And somewhere between the airport security line and watching my son discover a new city, I realized that a holiday tradition didn’t have to mean repeating what was. It could mean creating what is.

Now, travel is our December tradition. Different cities, different experiences, different versions of ourselves. And this year, we’re leaving on December 23 — the day itself. Not to avoid it, but to meet it differently. To say: Grief doesn’t get to own this date forever. We do.

But here’s what I’ve learned about celebrating the holidays when someone’s missing: it’s complicated. I’ve had to learn to parent through that complexity. Six years of being the only one. The only one who remembers to pack the inhaler, stay up when he’s sick, show up to every game. The only one making every decision, carrying every worry, being both the soft place to land and the firm hand that guides.

And during the holidays? The weight doubles. I’m supposed to be Santa and the elf, the keeper of magic and the holder of grief. Some days, I’m so tired I want to cancel Christmas altogether. But then he rushes to his Advent calendar, counting down to London with pure joy, and I remember: He deserves this excitement. And maybe, after six years, so do I.

The conversations are the hardest part. He was four when his dad died. His memories are fading now, becoming more feeling than fact. Sometimes he’ll say, “I think Dad would’ve liked this,” and I can hear the question mark in his voice. Like, what he remembers and what I’ve told him have blurred together. In those moments, I have to decide: Do I fill in every gap, or do I let him build his own relationship with a father who exists now only in stories?

“He would’ve loved that you’re so excited about traveling,” I tell him. “He’d love that you’re brave enough to see the world.”

That’s the gift his father left us. A love strong enough that it still guides our choices. When I book these trips, when I say yes to new traditions, when I teach my son that grief and joy can coexist, I’m parenting through the lens of what his dad would want for him. I’m not frozen in the past; I’m fully alive in the present.

This December 23, my son will hop in his airplane seat, thrilled about his first international trip. I’ll look out the window at 30,000 feet and mark six years of surviving what I didn’t think I could survive. The best gift I’ve given my son is new memories that are fully his. Christmases in places his father never saw, traditions that belong to just us, proof that life continues even after loss. The best gift my son has given me is a reason to keep choosing. To keep choosing life, choosing joy, choosing to get on the plane even when grief is packed in my carry-on.

And the gift I gave myself? Permission. To grieve and celebrate. To be sad and book the flight. To let December 23 become something new.

We’re both counting down to the same day this Christmas, though for completely different reasons. He’s counting toward something. I’m counting through something. Yet, somehow, in the space between his excitement and my grief, we’ve built a life that honors what was while embracing what is.

That’s our tradition now: showing up for each other, honestly, in whatever shape we’re in. Two calendars, one journey, and the courage to keep moving forward, together.

Sis, drop a comment below and tell us how you’re giving yourself permission for grief and celebration this season. Tell your story and share your heart — we’d love to hear from you!