It’s easier to remember someone else’s grief in the weeks immediately following the loss. It is a lot harder to remember them when your life goes on, relatively unchanged, when normal keeps happening.

Let me tell you from personal experience, that transition to normal is one of the hardest parts of grief. People forget. It’s not their fault. They don’t have inescapable grief shoved in their face all the time. But you do. And now you need to figure out how to do life without someone you love while most people have forgotten.

What’s normal for others—anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, traditions—all of these events have now changed for you. And most people won’t ever realize how much strength it might take you to get through them.

I’ve had 17 Christmases without my dad. Seventeen years of finding the most perfect gift only to be kicked in the gut with his loss. Seventeen years of bursting with excitement about finding the perfect Christmas tree only to be overwhelmed with memories of doing it with my dad. Seventeen years of trying to create the most magical Christmas season for my kids while struggling to survive the grief of my own. And you would think that because it’s been seventeen years, it should get easier. I should be over it. But I’m not. 

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And I know it’s awkward for my family and friends. I know it’s uncomfortable. Emotional. Weird. I know people don’t know what to say or do when my grief takes over. I mean, I don’t know what to say or do most of the time. But here are some practical suggestions I have found incredibly helpful. They may not always apply to each griever but here are some ideas.

Invite me. To dinner, to go shopping, to a school production. I may say no. It may be beyond my capabilities. But the invitation means more than you’ll know.

Be specific. If you invite a friend to a Christmas event, be specific with times and details. Sometimes the most overwhelming part of grief is making a decision. “We are having dinner at 5:00” is much less overwhelming than “come anytime”. I can’t emphasize enough how much specifications ease the mental load.

If you know the traditions I hold dear, ask me about them. If I haven’t gotten my tree yet, offer to take me. I may say no. But it means more than I can say that you asked. Sometimes your invitation gives me the courage I need to do it.

I want to celebrate. But I can’t. Maybe offer to do my Christmas shopping with (or for) me. My Christmas baking. Take my kids to an event. I want to. I want that for my family. But right now I just can’t.

Pop by with a movie. Bring all the comfort food. Wear your comfy clothes. If you aren’t all dolled up, it gives me permission to be who I am right in that moment, which is most likely a hot mess.

I most likely won’t know what will be hard for me. Some days certain things will make me cry, but the next day, it will be just fine. Please be patient with me. And be okay with my emotions. My grief might be totally manageable this season. So please laugh and joke and love with me.

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If you know I’m going to try to host, consider offering to come help with laundry. Or grocery shopping. Or cleaning. Even recipe selection. Take a practical chore off my list. I need you to be the hands and feet of Jesus to me because I can’t.

Let me talk about them. Even if I cry. One of the most painful parts of grief is having that person slowly disappear from pictures, memories, and conversations. Help me keep them alive.

Please offer me grace. Grief is exhausting. And overwhelming. And hard. And changing me into someone I don’t want to be. And so I need grace. All the grace.

Just acknowledge my grief. No matter the number of years that have passed. A simple acknowledgment that this season might be hard does a world of good.

Your willingness to step into someone else’s grief is one of the most priceless gifts you can ever give. Because who doesn’t want to know they aren’t alone in their darkest moments?