I thought Christmas Day would be the hardest.
So I planned. I filled the day. I made sure it was loud and bright and full of people. I threw myself into the performance of “everything’s fine” because I couldn’t bear the thought of my little boy missing out on the magic. Just like on Halloween — when I didn’t even tell him his dad had died that morning — I showed up. I put on the costume. I handed out the sweets. Because being the one who breaks your child’s heart and can’t fix it? That’s a pain you’d do anything to avoid.
So I overcompensated. I gave him what I could.
And it worked — sort of. Christmas passed. The world didn’t fall apart. I’d ticked off the Big Scary First.
Then New Year’s Eve arrived.
We were at my best friend’s house in Dublin. The same house we’d always gone to, since before kids, then with babies and toddlers and sleep routines. It was familiar. Safe. Low key. Jools Holland’s Hootenanny on the TV. A bit (a lot) of wine. Auld Lang Syne. The same bouncy circle of hugs and laughter we’d done so many times before.
Except this time, when the clock struck twelve, it knocked the wind right out of me.
Because suddenly it wasn’t just a new year.
It was the first year Andy wouldn’t be a part of.
He hadn’t just missed Christmas. He’d missed everything that was coming.
It hit me in the chest like a freight train — not because I’d always found New Year’s to be meaningful (I hadn’t), but because this one confirmed what my brain and heart were still refusing to process:
He really was gone.
He wouldn’t walk into this year. Or the next. Or any after that.
It was the moment that made it all too real. And I wasn’t ready.
That was my first New Year’s Eve as a widow. And now, here I am about to face my 8th. It’s still not “just another night.” It never will be.
But I’ve made peace with it. Or maybe just space for it.
I still feel that somatic sting — the memory of that first NYE, the gut-punch of knowing he wasn’t coming with us into the new year. But now, I let it in. I honour it. I sit with it.
And then I look, gently, at what has changed.
What I’ve built. What I’ve carried. Who I’ve become.
I bring Andy with me into every new year — just in a different form. In memories. In stories. In the ways I choose to live.
If this is your first New Year’s Eve without your person, I want to tell you this:
Skip it if you want to.
There is no law that says you have to watch the fireworks or count down with strangers or pretend to cheer as a new year rolls in without them.
You don’t have to celebrate.
You don’t have to even look at the clock.
You get to walk into this next year as softly and quietly as you need to.
You get to survive it. That’s enough.
And if you feel ambushed — if the grief explodes out of nowhere — that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means you’re human. And this is hard.
So let it be hard.
Let it be sacred. Let it be sad. Let it be whatever it needs to be.
And know this: one day, it will feel different. Maybe not easier. But less sharp. Less shocking. Less of a gut punch.
And you’ll realise you carried them into that year, too.
Just not in the way you’d hoped.
Or if you’re looking for something gentle to hold you right now, download my free guided meditation here.
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You’re not alone—even when it feels like it.