When you mention grief, most people think of the kind that comes with death. It also shows up in friendships that fade and identities we’ve left behind. Grief doesn’t disappear when the holidays show up. Instead, we get to awkwardly juggle them with joy and celebration. You’ll be driving around looking at Christmas lights, eating a holiday meal, laughing with friends and family, snuggling on the couch with your pet and out of nowhere, grief into the moment (How rude!). You might feel joy and nostalgia, or you might feel sadness, anger, and longing for what used to be.
This is another new series for my blog – Mind Matters – where I’ll be diving into different topics related to mental health. For this first Mind Matters post, I want to talk about the different kinds of grief that December brings into focus for me – the obvious losses, the subtle ones, and the ones I didn’t understand until I learned more about my own brain.
Grieving People Who Have Died
I feel the absence of my mom everywhere during the holidays, even in moments that used to feel so small. The drive home from work when I think about calling her to tell her about my day. The meals I’m making and eating that she would’ve loved. The empty chair at family gatherings. The absence of her voice creating a silence that’s so loud.
Sometimes the grief shows up as a nostalgic, soft and warm feeling. Other times grief feels sharp like a knife stabbing me in the heart. I feel sad, angry, and confused. “Why did she have to leave my life so early? Why can’t she still be here with us?” Our family gatherings have always been small, and now they feel even smaller. We didn’t have a lot of traditions that stand out in my memory and that almost makes it harder. Like I’m grieving the traditions we never had, wishing we’d had more time to make more. Grief is strange like that.
Grieving People Who Haven’t Died, But No Longer Exist in My Life
I have felt the ache of friendships that faded more this year than I have in a long time. Watching pieces of their lives unfold on social media, pieces that I would have once played a huge role in, stirs up so many emotions. The same kind of emotions that come up when I’m grieving my mom: I am happy for them, and I am also sad, confused, angry, and wondering what it would be like right now if things had been different.
I miss the good times that we had together and who I was in those friendships. I also have more clarity now, and realize that those relationships weren’t healthy for me, or for them. There are times when I feel so alone, like a piece of me is missing when I think of them, and there are times when I realize I have incredible, wonderful friends in my life now who understand me in a way the others didn’t. It’s hard not to miss them when I think about the gifts we exchanged, the celebrations we shared, and the cards we would be sending each other this year. One moment we were doing all of those things, and the next moment… we weren’t.
This year, that grief tangled itself up with something new: grief tied to my ADHD diagnosis. I have felt angry with myself, with them, and with the years spent misunderstood. I’ve wondered if maybe the friendships would’ve lasted if I’d just “tried harder”. (Spoiler alert: they wouldn’t have, and I didn’t need to “try harder” to fit into a mold that my brain was never meant to fit.) I’ve cried thinking about the good times and what those friendships meant to me. I’ve wondered if I had gotten my diagnosis sooner and they understood me better, would that have helped? Maybe the fact that they didn’t stay is all the answer I need.
Grieving My Running Identity
Another kind of grief comes with letting go of who you once were. For me, this year I struggled with whether or not I was still “Marathon Megan”. I struggled with whether or not I was even still a runner. It’s been hard to accept that my pace has gotten slower and that training and races haven’t brought the same joy that they once did. Right now, long-distance training just doesn’t fit my life or my brain.
When my therapist pointed out the ADHD connection – that what once was a source of hyperfocus and dopamine had simply run its course (no pun intended) – it was a jarring realization. I wasn’t weak or undisciplined. I was burned out and under-stimulated. And once again, I felt both validation and anger towards my new diagnosis.
This burnout and fatigue poured over into my role with Still I Run. I wanted so badly for the local chapter that I was co-captain of to make an impact and to thrive. I wanted to be a part of something bigger, of breaking the stigma of mental health, one run at a time right here in my own backyard. Stepping down from that leadership role was hard, a decision that I didn’t make lightly, but that I ultimately made for the sake of my own mental health. I went as far as to question whether or not I should apply to be an ambassador for Still I Run again in 2026. I felt like such a failure. Then I realized that I wasn’t alone, and that my story could help others feeling the same way, and that makes me an awesome ambassador.
Grieving my ADHD Diagnosis
My ADHD diagnosis absolutely brought me validation and relief: “Oh, this explains everything.” “Sweet! It’s not that I just suck at adulting!” “I’m not actually a terrible human.” It also brought grief: for the friendships I might’ve kept if we’d all understood, for the fights and mistakes that might have resolved sooner (or never happened at all) if I had only known and gotten what I needed, for the potential I didn’t reach because I didn’t have the support that I needed, for the years I spent blaming myself for things that were never character flaws. Like all of the other kinds of grief I’ve talked about in this post, grieving my ADHD diagnosis is still there, and it probably always will be. It’s becoming softer and smaller, something I’m growing around.
Carrying Grief Into the Holidays… and Beyond
Some days I can talk about all of this with a soft smile, even laughter, as if the memories themselves are keeping me warm. Some days the grief hangs around like a NPC while I enjoy what I am doing. And some days it sits so heavy on my chest that I almost can’t breathe and it’s hard to feel any joy at all.
What helps is reminding myself that grief isn’t something to get over, it’s something that you learn to carry. Missing someone or something is a sign of love, and how deeply I grieve reflects how deeply I loved someone who has died, a friendship that faded, or a version of myself I’ve outgrown. I am allowed to miss my mom and still laugh with friends and family at get-togethers. I am allowed to mourn the loss of friends, while still wishing the best for them. I am allowed to evolve into a new identity and grieve the old me at the same time. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
I chose to start this Mind Matters series with grief because it is a matter of the mind. Matters of the mind are often tangled, tender, confusing things that we live with quietly. It’s also because your mind matters – who you are, how you think, and the things you carry all matter.
Whatever grief you’re carrying this holiday season, I hope you give yourself the same compassion you’d offer anyone else carrying something similar. Let the waves come as they come, let joy in when it finds you, let yourself be human. If anything in this post resonated with you, know that I am holding space for you. I would love it if you shared your thoughts or experiences in the comments if you feel comfortable.
You’re not alone in this. Not now, not during the holidays, not ever.
RD on the Run 