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“Don’t you think this year will be different?” a friend of mine asked me. We were chatting on the phone, and she was cheerfully trying to assure me that the December blues I typically experience might not happen this year.
I could understand why she was optimistic. By all measures, I’ve had an amazing year, full of joy and celebrations. My first book was published in May. I won some awards. I enjoyed a full docket of travel, speaking engagements, and teaching. Even better, I carved out meaningful time with my partner and children and connected with many friends. I balanced my work and home life with regular outings in nature (hiking, paddleboarding, and camping).
Even so, as December rolled around, I felt my body grow heavy with grief. This one month of the year, without fail, wreaks havoc on my nervous system. I get irritated, experience brain fog, and find myself more emotional. I describe it to my therapist as a sinking sensation, like I’m slipping into a dark hole, or I’m trapped behind a thick sheet of glass, separate from others.
The darkness usually descends the second week of December and lets up in early January, right after my late brother’s birthday. These particular weeks carry lots of reminders of old trauma and grief. Some of the cues are obvious and others less so (probably tied to early childhood memories that I can’t fully articulate).
While many of the grief reminders are unique to my personal history, I recognize that this time of year is hard on anyone who has survived childhood trauma. It’s a challenging season for those who don’t have warm, fuzzy memories of family togetherness. Here are some of the ways I’ve learned to make peace with my recurring grief:
I accept that the anniversary effect is real
I used to try to fight this annual response or reverse the sorrow somehow. I thought if I could stay busy enough, focus all my energy on my kids and friends and holiday festivities, then the darkness wouldn’t catch up to me. Perhaps if I exercised daily and ate more vegetables and went to bed early, I’d find a loophole. But trying to bypass my grief and ignore the triggers only made things worse. Distracting myself and denying my experience only caused me to sink deeper into despair. Not to mention, it added a layer of physical exhaustion to my frayed nervous system.
For many of us, certain seasons, calendar dates, and traditions are inextricably linked with trauma and grief, and no amount of gratitude or positive thinking can override that. The National Center for PTSD calls this “anniversary reactions,” and explains how it’s a very normal response to trauma. The nervous system is wired to respond to time-linked cues and stimuli – dates, sounds, seasons, smells, songs, or even special foods – and protect us from further harm.
I thank my body for protecting me
For me, hearing Christmas music, smelling pumpkin spice lattes, and being bombarded with images of big, happy families recalls traumas like my brother’s sudden death, my parents’ divorce, food insecurity, and other holiday-related hardships. Whenever my body reacts to these triggers, I know it’s trying to alert me and avoid further harm. While tools like talk therapy and EMDR have helped immensely, they don’t completely reverse the damage to my nervous system that repeated trauma caused. No amount of positive thinking or pulling myself up by my bootstraps can erase my neurological history.
Over the years, as I realized that my brain was doing its job to protect me, I was able to feel much more hope and patience to endure my darkest days. Knowing my body is strong and wise has helped me feel gratitude instead of despair.
I use the calendar to my advantage
Once I accepted that I can’t out-smart the anniversary effect or shortcut it, I was able to come up with a strategy for moving through it with more ease.
Over scheduling myself in December only makes things worse. So instead, I started scheduling one or two things in January that I could look forward to after the fog lifted: A weekend trip with my family, a getaway with close friends, dinner at a favorite restaurant, or a day of skiing with my kids.
When I do make plans in December, I allow myself to cancel, guilt-free. I tell people that I need to play it by ear or ask them if we can keep things flexible. This transparency helps me manage expectations (theirs and mine). Plus, it gives my friends permission to cancel too if they’re feeling overwhelmed or exhausted by year-end activities.
I edit my self-talk to be more compassionate
A few years ago, I stopped telling myself that I should feel joyful in December. I stopped feeling guilty for having grief triggers. I stopped believing I could just snap out of it. And I stopped trying to explain myself to well-meaning friends who don’t understand.
When I feel heavy and sad, instead of judging, I just notice the feelings and name them. I ask myself, “What do you need right now? What would feel better?” And I look for small ways to comfort myself. A warm cup of tea. A short nap. Watching a favorite show. Listening to music. Having a snack.
I also take lunchtime walks. Even if it’s just ten or fifteen minutes, a daily walk lifts my mood, orients me to the present moment, and reminds me that I’m safe. The bilateral movement calms my nervous system, too. Sometimes, I’ll use the walk to call a friend or listen to a podcast. (The key here is that I have to put this walk on my calendar and set reminders. Otherwise, I’ll skip it.)
I lean on my support team
Finally, I remind myself that I’m never alone. I’ve learned to trust my partner, my therapist, and a few of my closest friends who truly understand the lingering effects of past trauma. I know I can be honest with them about how I’m feeling, and they don’t judge me, try to rush me or fix things. They allow me to show up as I am — happy or sad, quiet or talkative.
They’ve also helped me create a few new memories and traditions to associate with December. One friend helped me create a winter playlist that doesn’t include any holiday songs. Another invites me to join her for short hikes and coffee dates. The new memories don’t cancel out the old ones, but they add some lightness and meaning to this time of year.