If you are here because you have recently experienced the loss of your baby in pregnancy, birth, or beyond, I am so deeply sorry. I see you, and I know your pain. I remember it viscerally, deeply, profoundly.
My first Christmas after Poppy died was eleven years ago. I was 23 weeks pregnant when I delivered her on November 12, 2014. We cremated her on December 7, just three weeks before Christmas. In the run-up to the big day, time blurred into an endless stretch of primal grief and trauma – somehow made even more unbearable by a world lit with fairy lights and filled with cheerful music. Everywhere I turned, there was joy, light, and expectation. And inside me, there was only deep, dark loss.
Christmas Day arrived with its own kind of pressure. I was determined not to ruin it for everyone – not least my small children, who were just four and six at the time. We hosted our extended family: fourteen of us gathered around the table. (I don’t know what we were thinking.) My husband cooked, I smiled, chatted, poured drinks, and carried plates, my grief carefully hidden behind a cheerfulness that was entirely painted on. Falling apart didn’t feel like an option. ’Tis the season to be jolly, after all.
It turned out to be far more painful than falling apart would have been.
Because that enforced cheerfulness meant that no one talked about Poppy at all. My baby, whose absence filled every corner of my body, was erased from the room in the name of festive normality. I survived Christmas – but I was also broken by it.
Then came January. That bleak, endless month we all struggle through – hard to endure in normal circumstances, let alone when your world has been obliterated. But unexpectedly, that particular January was when the light began to break through the cracks.
It was in the relentless grip of midwinter that my grief felt, for the first time, as though it was being seen and held rather than crushed. Not hidden. Not silenced. But illuminated by something quiet and true. It whispered its presence in the foggy apparitions of those January mornings; in each frosty inhale and exhale, in the frozen ground bereft of life, and in dark mornings that slowly began to flame with light. It was carried on long reflective winter walks, when I could hide under thick scarves, hat pulled low, sunglasses shielding my tears. Then it was warmed as I lay beneath heavy blankets, reading, resting, regenerating. In January, my grief was mirrored back to me through nature itself – in the stillness, death, and barrenness of winter. And it was there, in that stillness, that I found peace.
Not through tinsel and twinkles or forced merriment – but by being allowed to lean fully into grief to allow me to try and find the strength to re-emerge with with the buds and blossoms and the fragile, careful hope that only time and nature can provide. It is no coincidence that January was when I approached Petals and began my free counselling sessions. It was only then that my healing truly began.
As the years have passed since that first Christmas, December has taken on a different shape for me.
No matter how many years pass, Poppy remains part of my thoughts, my heart and our family. Over eleven years into this journey, I’ve learned that keeping her close doesn’t mean sinking into the weight of her absence. Instead, it means creating rituals that make her presence known; gifts to her – and to myself. I hope these ‘grief gifts’ might also help you through this difficult time – from my heart to yours.
The Ever After Garden
One of the rituals I treasure most is visiting the Ever After Garden, which opens for three weeks from late November to mid-December. It was created as a place for people to go when the world is focused on family and celebration, yet their own hearts are carrying someone who can’t be there.
The garden is filled with thousands of illuminated white roses – a glowing field of remembrance, each bloom carrying the name or message of someone loved. It’s a space where grief is held openly, where absence is acknowledged rather than hidden. Each year, walking through the garden feels like stepping into a collective heartbeat. It reminds me that grief is not a solitary place – that love binds our stories together.
Flower Power
Flowers have always been part of my language for Poppy, each year I buy and plant a winter-flowering hellebore – Snow Angel – around her tree. They bloom when everything else is sleeping, their delicate white petals opening through the coldest months. They feel like a quiet whisper of beauty in the dark – my small gift to her each Christmas.
Deck the Halls
Deck the HallsOur Christmas tree holds decorations with all our initials – including Poppy’s. Seeing her initial shimmering there is a reminder that she will always be nestled in the heart of our family.
Wintering
This time of year, I try to move with the season rather than fight it. To slow down and turn my focus inward. That means less time on social media and more on simple, seasonal pleasures with my children – crafting, baking, reading – which also brings Poppy closer, too. Wintering might look like:
- Early nights
- Quiet mornings
- Long, frosty walks
- Meditation or gentle breathing
- Daily rituals to intentionally soothe the nervous system, like switching off your phone
- Reading the books you loved as a child
- Colouring
- Crafting
- Treating yourself with unusual kindness
- Letting yourself be held by silence and solitude in between family time
These practices aren’t about fixing grief. They simply make space around the Christmas noise where your heart can find a moment of peace.
A present for you: Petals’ Christmas Care Bundle
If this is your first Christmas without your baby, please know this: you don’t have to do this alone. The festive period can intensify grief and isolation, which is why access to support at this time is so important. Petals’ Christmas Care Bundle offers gentle, compassionate support through the holiday period – blogs, videos, and exercises from our counsellors – a reminder that help is always there when you need it most.
Wherever you are in your grief this season – years, months, or days – it is my Christmas wish that you feel free and able to honour your child in ways that feel most natural. I hope you can find small rituals or moments that bring closeness, not overwhelm. And that you can feel the presence of everlasting love, and the support of a community that knows your pain, alongside the deep ache of absence.
Remember there is no right way to do Christmas after loss. There is only your way. And you are not alone.
Ali x