The Pain That Doesn’t Show Up in Christmas Photos

When I wrote A Merry & Messy Christmas, I poured out my heart—every messy, complicated piece of it. I didn’t know what to expect after hitting “post,” but I never anticipated how deeply it would resonate with so many people. The comments and messages began pouring in—stories of pain, estrangement, longing, and, sometimes, healing. My friend Valerie said it beautifully: “So many of us have silent pain that doesn’t show up in holiday posts and pictures.”  

That single sentence stopped me in my tracks. How true it is.  

We see the glossy, perfect snapshots of the holidays—the glowing trees, the coordinated outfits, the beaming faces—but we rarely see what’s just beyond the lens. The arguments, the absences, the silent griefs, the spaces left by loved ones who are no longer here. The weight of that pain may not make it into the photo, but it is felt deeply in every corner of our lives.  

After reading all the responses to my essay, I cried for ANOTHER 24 hours. I mean, full-on, ugly crying—the kind I haven’t done since the day John Denver died, the day my son left for the Marines, or the day my first alpaca passed away. I guard against tears like the Hoover Dam holds back the Delaware (or the Colorado, or whatever water).  

It’s one of my superpowers—using every tool I’ve collected over a lifetime to avoid shedding a tear. Need someone to organize a landfill, mop the deck of a fishing boat, or alphabetize a library by genre? I’m your girl, especially if it means steering clear of deep emotion.  

But this time, my damn dam broke.  

There’s something so profoundly moving about realizing you’re not alone, that your messiness mirrors someone else’s, and that in sharing your struggles, you’ve given someone else permission to acknowledge theirs.  

Dealing with deep emotion is hard. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and completely beyond our control. But here’s what I’m learning: sometimes, when we let the floodwaters flow, they carve a pathway for fresh, new moments to emerge—for growth to take root.  

So, to everyone who reached out, who shared their pain, or simply said, “thank you,” you reminded me that the imperfections and struggles we carry aren’t just ours; they’re universal. They’re the stories behind the photos, the truths behind the smiles.  

This holiday season, I’m holding space for that truth—for the messy, unphotographed moments that remind us we’re human. For the tears I’ve avoided, the ones I’ve let fall, and the ones yet to come. For the grace to feel it all—ugly, beautiful, and everything in between.  

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start letting those tears flow without ten thousand less-painful chores to distract me.