The Longing for With
On grief, presence, and the days after the holidays
The days after the holidays often feel quieter, but not necessarily peaceful. There is a kind of movement that still lingers in the body, even after the calendar turns. Before the holidays, that movement has a name and a purpose: shopping, crafting, preparing, gathering. There is always so much to do, and very little room to feel.
The body, however, does not wait for permission. Whether we are conscious of the feelings rising in us or not, they are still present, still alive within us. Feelings that have every right to be there. Feelings that carry meaning. Feelings that tell a story.
And perhaps that is what the holiday season is meant to hold: story. The unfolding of creation, of God-with-us, of love entering the world. Yet how often do we pause long enough to stay with that story as it intersects with our own? More often, we rush past it. We move quickly toward what comes next, while many of us remain lost within our own story, unsure how to name what is true, what is hopeful, or what is aching beneath the surface.
When the holidays end, when the lights are turned off, the decorations put away, and family and friends return to their separate lives, the story does not end. What often remains is the ache itself, quietly waiting to be witnessed, to be named, to be held. The holidays have a way of awakening old longings because, at their core, the season is about God-with-us, about presence, about the promise of attachment and nearness. For many, however, this emphasis on with touches the places in their story where that presence has been absent. It highlights the spaces where there has not been a felt sense of safety, connection, or relational closeness.
As Dan Allender names so well, these are the places where shalom has been shattered. And when the season centers on family, whether those relationships are present, fractured, or entirely gone, it stirs a deep intersection of hope and history. Creation meets memory. Sweetness brushes up against disappointment. Love exists alongside profound loss.
Of all the times of the year, the holidays may be the most tender. They leave us more exposed, more honest about what we carry, and more aware of the longings we have learned to protect. And within that tenderness lies an invitation, perhaps the deepest one we are given, to enter our story with greater care and truth.
The door of that invitation is often named grief. After more than a decade in healing and listening spaces, I have come to see how misunderstood grief still is. It is often reserved only for moments of death, when in reality the relationship we are called to have with grief is lifelong. Grief is less about sadness alone and more about honesty, truth-telling, and honor. Perhaps this is why so many can remain on a grief journey for decades and still feel halted near where they began. Avoidance often masquerades as protection, both culturally and within our smaller communities, keeping us from what we are truly being invited into: the courage to go deep within our story and name what is there, no matter what we find.
For those with complex family structures, unresolved loss, or stories that are hard to name, there is often a bodily awareness throughout the season. A subtle shadow. A quiet knowing that something is there, asking to be felt or acknowledged, yet too ambiguous or too overwhelming to sit with directly. And so, instead of stillness and reflection, there is busyness. A low-grade aversion to what is calling from within. The longing for with.
Then the tree comes down. Everyone goes home. And suddenly there is a rush toward the new year. New resolutions. New beginnings. New promises. Promises that keep us running, but rarely arriving where we hope. The after-holiday blues often emerge from some holy place within us, carrying a message that something is not right, that something is hurting, that some part of us longs to be known, understood, seen, or welcomed into a story it cannot yet name.
Our origin story was always meant to be with. It was always meant to be presence and attachment. God is a God of nearness. Everything begins here. Everything flows from this place. Our understanding of connection, family, and belonging traces back to this truth. With. And anything that veers from this story is worthy of grief. Most often, the body speaks long before the mind catches up. This ache may make itself known through fatigue, heaviness, tightness, numbness, restlessness, or anxiety. Emotions may feel intensified for some, dulled or inaccessible for others. Whether through sensation or feeling, the body is always communicating. And I have never met a body that was dishonest. Our bodies are truth-tellers, faithfully carrying what has been lived. Yet without space, time, or safety, those messages are not always heard or understood. Sometimes the body holds what words have not yet been able to carry.
When we are able to sit with another human who does not rush us, fix us, or turn away, something sacred happens. When our story is witnessed with honesty, when harm is named and grief is honored, something begins to soften. Shame loses its hiding places. Longing becomes less frightening when it is understood as evidence of what we were made for. This does not change the story we came from, but it can interrupt the story that keeps repeating. When pain is met with presence rather than pressure, the story begins to shift. We are given the chance to become co-authors of our lives, shaping a future marked not by denial or busyness, but by belonging, truth, and deep connection.
And perhaps this is the quiet work the holidays leave us with. Not the demand to move on quickly, but the invitation to stay. To listen to what has surfaced in the stillness. To honor what has been awakened. And to trust that the ache we feel in the days after the lights come down is not a failure of faith or resilience, but a sacred summons back to with.
Warmly,
lillie
Reflection Questions
As the holidays have passed, what feelings or sensations have lingered in your body?
What did busyness protect you from feeling during the season, and what is asking for attention now?
When you think about the idea of with, what stirs in you? Where does that word feel comforting, and where does it feel tender or painful?
Are there losses in your story that feel hard to name because they are not tied to death, but to absence, disappointment, or what never fully formed?
How does grief speak to you through your body? What signals does it offer?
What might it look like to stay with your ache rather than rush toward resolution or meaning?
As you move forward, what would it mean to live a little closer to with in your own life?