Permission to hold grief and hope in the same hand.
Today is the Third Sunday of Advent. The pink candle. The joy candle.
And maybe you lit it this morning, in church or at home, and felt a soft ache in your chest anyway. Because everyone around you seems to be stepping into the sparkle of the season, and you’re just trying to make it through the day.
Maybe this Christmas feels heavier than usual. Maybe you’re carrying grief that doesn’t take a holiday. Maybe anxiety has been your unwelcome companion through every carol and cookie exchange. Maybe you’re exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with shopping lists.
If joy feels out of reach this Christmas, I want you to know something:
You’re not doing Advent wrong.
The Pressure to Be Merry
December comes with so much pressure, doesn’t it? Pressure to feel grateful. Pressure to be present. Pressure to make memories. Pressure to enjoy it all.
But what happens when your heart isn’t cooperating? When the grief is too fresh, the anxiety too loud, the exhaustion too deep?
We smile anyway. We push through. We feel guilty for not feeling joyful in the season of joy.
Can I offer you a different way?
Joy and Sorrow Can Share the Same Space
Here’s what I’m learning—sometimes the hard way: Joy and sorrow are not opposites. They can exist in the same heart, on the same day, in the same breath.
The first Christmas wasn’t neat and tidy either. Mary was young and afraid. Joseph was confused. They were far from home, surrounded by animals, bringing a baby into a world that would eventually reject Him. And yet—the angels still sang. The shepherds still came. The star still shone.
Joy showed up in the middle of the mess.
Not instead of the hard parts. Alongside them.
What If Joy Isn’t What We Think?
I think we’ve confused joy with happiness. Happiness depends on circumstances. Joy is something deeper—something that can flicker even in the dark.
Nehemiah 8:10 says, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.”
Notice it doesn’t say your joy. It says the joy of the Lord. His joy. Not dependent on your circumstances. Not something you have to manufacture.
You don’t have to produce joy this Christmas. You just have to stay close to the One who holds it.
Permission Granted
So here’s your permission slip, friend. Keep it close if you need to:
You are allowed to grieve during the holidays.
You are allowed to feel anxious even when the lights are twinkling.
You are allowed to skip the party, leave early, or say no.
You are allowed to cry and laugh in the same hour.
You are allowed to have a complicated relationship with Christmas.
None of this disqualifies you from Advent. None of this means you’re faithless. It means you’re human. And Jesus came for humans, the weary, the burdened, the ones barely holding on.
A Gentle Invitation
If you’re struggling this December, can I invite you to do one small thing?
Instead of trying to feel joyful, look for small moments of light. A warm cup in your hands. A kind text from a friend. The way the sun catches the frost. A song that makes you breathe a little deeper.
Joy doesn’t always feel like fireworks. Sometimes it’s just a flicker. And flickers count.
The angel told the shepherds, “I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.” (Luke 2:10)
All the people. Including the grieving ones. The anxious ones. The exhausted ones. Including you.
You’re Not Alone
If this post found you in a hard place, I want you to know: you’re not alone. So many of us are holding grief and hope in the same hand this Christmas.
The pink candle is lit today. Joy. Not because everything is okay, but because Light came into the darkness. And the darkness has not overcome it.
It won’t overcome you either.
Breathe. You’re going to make it through this.
With you in the waiting,
Katia xo
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