There’s a place my daughter and I love to visit. Usually, it’s just the two of us on a day trip. This place is alive with joy and adrenaline, filled with the smell of delicious food around every bend and up every hill. It holds memories of Jason and also of just us girls. It’s where we can carry both grief and joy at the same time.

We don’t go because we’re sad—we go to step away from the hustle of everyday life and to take time to remember. We remember when he roamed the hills with us, cracked endless dad jokes, and delivered those famous one-liners that still live in the notes app on our phones. We read them, we laugh, and we can almost hear his voice and see his face as he shared his brand of comedy.

Recently, my girl and I went back. We walked, felt the rush of adrenaline, listened to music, and soaked in the sights, sounds, and smells. We sat in our favorite spot along the path by the school and the dogwood trees. We needed that time—to slow down, reconnect, and remember—before the holiday season swept us back into its busyness. We needed the thrill rides just as much as we needed hot chocolate and funnel cake.

This time, though, felt different. Leading up to the trip, we had been sitting with new grief, honoring a precious life with dear friends. That, of course, stirred up the familiar grief we’ve carried since losing Jason. I’m realizing grief isn’t something you set down and walk away from—it’s always with you. Sometimes it’s quieter, sometimes it’s more visible, but it’s always present because there was love. We loved deeply, we lived fully, and we built memories I’ll treasure forever. Yet grief lingers in the wake of his death. I lost a spouse, a best friend, and the father of my daughter. I also lost the dreams and plans for a life we’ll never live. I lost hope—and that takes time for my Heavenly Father to restore.

Now here we are again, in the holiday season, facing the awkwardness of celebrating without him. You’d think that after five years it would get easier, but each year brings new challenges, and this year is no different.

I’d love to say holidays get easier with time, but I don’t think that’s true. What I’ve learned is that if I make space to retreat and process my feelings, I can navigate family gatherings—whether they’re brand new or steeped in tradition. Still, it’s hard. Sometimes it takes me a while to process when things don’t go as planned. I know there will be moments that take my breath away and bring tears, and I know there will be moments filled with joy and laughter. This is what it means to live with grief.

Through it all, the one thing I hold onto is that my Heavenly Father has never left me. He’s been by my side, gone before me, and always provided what I need. He’s restored my hope for the future and given me renewed purpose. He’s brought beautiful people into my life who have walked with me through loss, deepening friendships beyond what I could have imagined. Maybe this is what scripture means by “beauty for ashes.” Either way, I am thankful, grateful, and blessed—even in the depths of grief.

My prayer for you, as we all walk through the holidays, is that you give yourself grace in your grief. Pause, rest, and reflect on the memories you hold dear. Find your place where you can hold both joy and sorrow, and process all that you’re carrying.

And if you can’t find a place—ask me. I’ll share mine. It’s big enough for anyone who needs it.