Grief and the Empty Place Setting
There was once this boy who felt safe to me. No matter how unwise some of his decisions were or how sarcastic he got, he felt like home 💛. I don’t remember a time in my life when he wasn’t there, the good, the bad, and the in-between. He loved me purely for who I was, flaws and all (and trust me, he’d have no problem pointing them out 😏).
At one point he was my protector, my compass for which way was north 🧭. Somewhere along the way, he lost his. The roles switched, and suddenly I was the one trying to protect him. “You can’t always protect me, Forrest,” he once said. But that didn’t change anything. I still had a job to do. He needed me, or at least that’s how it felt.
I loved him with my whole heart 💔. It was one of the purest forms of unconditional love I’ll ever know. And then it was gone. One ordinary day, while unloading groceries, he was just… gone 🛒.
The sympathy lines started rolling in like a bad Hallmark marathon 💐📺. “A life cut too short.” “Such a tragedy.” Words people toss out like emotional bubble wrap, hoping they’ll keep the sharp edges from cutting too deep. But they don’t. They just make the silence louder 🤐. This wasn’t just a loss. It was the loss, the one that changes everything. “He’s in a better place.” I wanted to ask where exactly that place was, because I would’ve packed a bag 🎒💔. But this wasn’t a movie or a lesson in grace. This was loss in its rawest form, messy, unfair, and far too real 😔.
There were calls to make ☎️, feelings to feel 😭, responsibilities to carry 💼, people to comfort 🤝, all without the one person who made it all manageable. I remember looking at my family, broken in a way none of us were prepared for. It was the kind of loss that tore through everything. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he wasn’t just my glue. He was the glue for all of us. The day he died, I didn’t just lose my best friend. I lost my entire family 🕯️.
Nothing has been the same since. My world didn’t stop spinning, it just spun differently. Off balance. Dizzying 🌪️. It felt like that night in high school when the cops 🚨 showed up to the cornfield, spotlight on us, catching us mid-Boone’s Farm 🍓🍷 buzz. Exposed. Vulnerable. One wrong move from falling apart.
I’d love to say that after a decade things have gotten better. Some days they do. Other days it feels like it just happened. Whoever said time heals all wounds is a liar 🤥. Time doesn’t heal; it gives you new angles to look at the pain from. It doesn’t go away, it just shifts. I wish grief came with a manual, or at least a Lisa Frank planner and a scented gel pen so I could color-code my meltdowns 💅📒🌈.
Especially this time of year. The holidays 🎄. The season of family, food, and joy, where the empty chair at the table feels louder than the laughter around it 🍽️. I’ve reached the point where there isn’t even a place setting anymore. Half my family avoids the topic, pretending it’s not there 🙈. The other half keeps his name alive, tells stories, remembers 🕯️. Both sides hurt in their own ways. I just sit there trying to emotionally regulate while the Green Bean Casserole stares at me like it knows too much 🥴🥘. I haven’t figured out which camp feels more like home yet.
Why am I telling you this?
A) It helps me process some things (and yes, I’m calling it “work”) 💻🫠.
2) Because we all have an empty place setting somewhere. Some are right in front of us. Others sit quietly in the corner of our minds 🪞. And for many of us, especially around the holidays, that missing piece gets heavy again, no matter how much time has passed ⏳.
As the holidays creep in 🎅, I think it’s important to say this out loud: grief doesn’t take time off. The lights, the noise, the obligations, all of it can make that ache sharper 💡🎁💔. Whether you’re more Grinch (misunderstood and over it 😤), Rudolph (invited but still the punchline 🦌), Bumble (left out entirely 🧊), or Buddy the Elf (trying to make everyone love each other and eat all the sugar 🍭), you’re valid in however you need to navigate the season.
If that means being alone with your memories, that’s okay 💭. If it means keeping it together until you’re alone, that’s okay too. Whatever your flavor of coping is, that’s what you need right now 💗. Grief doesn’t care about tradition, etiquette, or what the rest of the table expects. It just asks to be felt, and maybe, for a moment, remembered 🕊️.
Maybe the truth is, there’s no right way to handle that empty seat. Some years, I leave it untouched. Other years, I pile food on it like he’s just running late 🍗. Either way, I still talk to him, sometimes out loud, sometimes just in my head, and occasionally with a little wine 🍷 involved.
Because grief doesn’t always mean sadness. Sometimes it’s laughter at a memory that used to make you cry. Sometimes it’s talking to an empty chair and realizing it still feels like a conversation 💬. And if you find yourself crying into the mashed potatoes this year, that’s fine too. Salt’s salt 🥲🦃. We’re all just doing the best we can with too many emotions and not enough gravy 🫠.
So, if you’re out there trying to make it through the holidays, do whatever you need to do, whether that’s journaling, ugly crying, or blasting Alanis Morissette in your minivan 🎶🚗. Healing is healing, even if it’s set to 90s alt-rock 💿.
And if all else fails, remember this: grief may not come with Lip Smackers-level shine 💄, but at least it’s real. And let’s be honest, Dr. Pepper flavor still slaps 🥤😉.
Whether you’re holding space at the table, filling the silence with stories, or just trying to get through one more holiday playlist without crying in the car, know this: you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing it human 💛. Comfortably Human, to be exact💛.
