It’s been a while since I wrote for our blog, and as usual, it’s motivated by what I’m noticing in my own experience leading up to the holidays. The title of the blog is a bit tongue-in-cheek – anyone who knows my reading habits well knows that I love C.S. Lewis, who has a particularly brilliant book called Surprised By Joy. Surprised By Grief, however, is my attempt at humanizing the holidays, with a nod to my own discoveries of grief this year.
There are many definitions of grief, and certainly, many definitions amongst professionals. We were fortunate to have a grief expert, Dena Moitoso, do a lunch-and-learn with our team this year and it was very helpful (and yes, she is in fact, the mother of our very own Marcia Moitoso!). She highlighted so many important things about grief, but one of the most important in my mind, is that the experience of grief by an individual is heavily influenced by how their grief comes to be, and how it’s treated by those around them. I have to admit that through the course of my life I haven’t really given my own grief a lot of attention, understanding, or even acknowledgement. Perhaps it’s that German-Ukrainian Mennonite upbringing again, perhaps it’s my personality, or likely all of the above that has lead to this. Perhaps it’s neurodivergence – I know my ADHD certainly impacts how I see, and process many things. Whatever the case may be, I’ve been intentional this year to pay attention, mainly because I haven’t really had much of a choice because it’s made itself known in ways that weren’t particularly considerate of my desire to engage.
How It Started
It started with the loss of our dog, Buttercup, this past May. She was 4 days short of her 15th birthday when she passed. Understandably, it was heartbreaking for our kids, and for my wife. My kids can’t remember a time without Buttercup, and Buttercup was a constant companion for Meg, particularly in the early years post-accident. Buttercup could always tell how Meg’s pain was each day without Meg ever having to say anything. What I didn’t expect was how hard it hit me. I wrote a couple of posts on LinkedIn about it here, and here. Don’t get me wrong, I loved our dog, but I’m very much a dog owner who differentiates between dogs and humans. I didn’t think it would hit me as hard as it did, but here we are. What was different this time around was that I let it. I shared openly about it, with people in my life, with clients (as it seemed appropriate to do so), and publicly. I let myself cry, and that does not come easily to me, though I’m getting better at it.
Then, I was confronted with the grief of my own mental health journey. It’s still something I’m unpacking, but between my therapist not letting me off the hook, and me intentionally creating some space in my own life to pay attention, I’m starting to understand just how impactful it’s been on my life. Long story very short, I’ve started to grieve for the kid who discovered what depression was at age 6. I’ve started to grieve the terror he felt for the next 20 years, and all of the things he felt he had to do or not do in dealing with it.
This was amplified recently when we lost a client to suicide at the clinic. It always hits therapists hard when they lose a client, and it’s why we work as a team here, not in isolation. What surprised me about this recent experience was that, while of course I was heartbroken for the family and for our therapist who had worked with them, I immediately connected with my own experience earlier in life where it very well could have been me. That’s when the grief hit like a freight train – for myself, and for the client, and for their family.
Most recently, grief hit while I was experiencing a lot of joy. My wife and I don’t give each other gifts really, we don’t want more stuff – so we give each other time. We do our best to get away for a night together and eat good food, do things we enjoy, all without the myriad of distractions that go on in our daily life. We ended up at the Good Noise gospel choir concert downtown, directed by our dear friend, Warren Dean Flandez. It was phenomenal, and full of so much joy. And the grief hit me big time in the middle of the concert, and surprise would be an understatement. And then it was book-ended by joy.
All this to say, grief is complicated. Joy can also be complicated in that it can co-occur with grief and often does (in my experience). The Christmas story and the holidays bring both front and centre to me, particularly this year, and it happens for so many. We recently collaborated with Heron Hospice Society, Estuary Church, and Ladner United Church to put on an event called Circle of Light for community members who have lost loved ones. It was a chance to acknowledge the dialectic that are the holidays – so much joy, and often, so much grief.
How It’s Going
Christmas is a time I’ve struggled with a lot over the years with my depression – feeling like we’re supposed to be happy, when sometimes we’re just not. Or maybe we are happy, but it’s complicated with sadness, or grief, or both. It struck me this week as I was reflecting on the Christmas story, that the first Christmas was likely full of these things too. If you’ve read the story, Mary and Joseph were travelling many miles, with a pregnant Mary riding a donkey, to comply with the Roman census. When we read that “there’s no room in the Inn,” it doesn’t mean that they couldn’t stay at the Four Seasons and had to settle for the Holiday Inn Express. No, it means they found a cave, full of dirty animals that smelled like something most of can’t even imagine, and gave birth to a baby that in the Christian tradition, was to be the saviour of the world. Not how I would have planned it, and I’m pretty sure there were some complicated emotions.
What often amplifies this for me (and this is my belief, not something I am trying to push on anyone else), is that according to the Bible, Jesus would grow up and become a sacrifice for humanity to restore the relationship between humanity and an all-knowing, all-powerful God. Those last bits are important. What this means is that God knew what would happen to this baby before it was born, and He chose to send Him anyways. The part that gets me, is that He made this choice, knowing who I am and all of my imperfections, and did it anyways. I can’t image the level of grief, and the level of joy He experienced in this part of the story.
I tell you all of this, not because I’m trying to preach in a non-religious blog for a non-religious mental health clinic. I’m telling you this because it’s necessary in order for you to understand my experience and what I’m trying to share with you – because my depression, my anxiety, some of the hard things I’ve experienced in life, some of the things I’ve done to try to deal with these things in unhealthy ways, have often led me to believe that I’m unworthy, that I’m a hopeless case, that I’ll never feel better, and many other things.
This is why this Christmas story is so important in my own journey of grief – it helps me know that I’m loved, that I’m worth it, and that there’s hope, and it can get better.
Hope For The Future
What I’m hoping for in sharing this with you, is that you’ll hear me saying, “However you’re feeling going into the holidays is ok.” If you’re grieving, I’m with you. If you’re experiencing joy, I’m with you. If you’re wondering how you’re going to survive the holiday mayhem, I’ve been there and I’m with you. If you’re looking forward to it, I’m with you.
Feelings are complicated. We don’t get to choose them, we just have them. If you’re human, you’ve experienced things that lead to grief and it’s ok to feel that too. The good news is that we’re capable of holding seemingly opposite feelings at the same time. We can experience joy, sadness, hope, and grief together. That’s not you being a mess, or a screwup, or “too much,” that’s you being human with the rest of us. You just don’t usually see it on a Christmas card.
If you’ve made it this far, I appreciate the effort and I hope it’s been worth it. Since this is my last chance to do so before the end of the year, I want to say thank you for letting us take care of you here at Alongside You. We’re far from perfect, and we’re human just like you, but we do always, and will always do our best to be both human, and helpful in caring for you.
My hope is that whatever traditions you have over these holidays, that you’ll be kind to yourself, that you’ll know that grief doesn’t take a holiday and if it shows up for you that you’re not alone, and that there’s hope. I appreciate every client who trusts us to take care of them, and I’m excited for what 2026 holds for all of us.
Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and Happy New Year to you and all of your loved ones.