A Healthcare Provider’s Journey Through Holiday Loss

(by Dr. Parul Dua Makkar)

Grief changes everything. It alters how we move, how we breathe, how we belong to the world. When I lost my younger and only sibling, Manu, and then later my father, the ground beneath me shifted in ways I could never have prepared for. Their deaths did not just take people I loved ,they took parts of my identity, parts of the life I knew, and parts of the future I once imagined. And as a healthcare provider, I carried these losses in silence far more often than I should have, because patients still needed me, staff still relied on me, and life kept moving even when I felt I could not.

Grief, especially during the holiday season, becomes heavier. The world glows with celebration while your own world grows dimmer. Lights twinkle on trees, music fills the air, families gather — and yet grief sits at the table too, whether invited or not. Empty chairs feel louder. Traditions feel altered. Even joy becomes complicated. Holidays highlight the contrast between what we long for and what reality now holds.

For some people, grief is the loss of someone they love deeply. For others, grief is the loss of a life that once felt whole. The routines, roles, stability, identity, or sense of safety that an earlier version of life held. I experienced both. Losing Manu and then losing my father created a before-and-after line that permanently reshaped my life. But as a dentist, mother, wife, daughter, business owner, and leader, I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Many healthcare providers will understand this, we push our grief aside so we can care for others, even as our own world quietly unravels.

But grief has a way of finding its voice. It shows up in ways we don’t always recognize as grief. It can manifest as irritability and impatience. As emotional exhaustion. As physical fatigue that sleep can’t fix. As anxiety that arrives without reason. As forgetting little things. As feeling detached from joy. As difficulty focusing at work. As loneliness, even when surrounded by people. As a heaviness in the body, a deep ache.

Grief doesn’t always look like tears, sometimes it looks like overworking, numbing through busyness, or putting everyone else’s needs ahead of your own. In healthcare especially, we often mourn quietly because the world expects us to stay steady, composed, and endlessly available. But grief doesn’t care about expectations — it shows up anyway, especially when the holidays magnify every absence.

The holiday season also brings a secondary grief that is rarely spoken about: the grief of losing the life we once knew. I grieve the holidays when Manu was still here – his laughter, his sarcasm, his presence. I grieve the sound of my father’s voice, his wisdom during long phone calls, the comfort of knowing he was a phone call away. I grieve the version of myself who still believed everything would turn out okay. This kind of grief is quiet but deep — it’s the grief of remembering who we were before everything changed.

Yet within this heaviness, I’ve learned some truths, truths I now share with patients, colleagues, and anyone navigating loss during the holidays.

You are allowed to create new traditions.
If the old ones hurt too much, you have permission to change them. Light a candle. Make their favorite dish. Or skip the things that feel too painful. There is no correct way to honor the season.

You are allowed to choose rest.
Grief is exhausting. If the holiday pace feels overwhelming, slow down. Cancel plans. Say no. Choose quiet. Protect your energy without guilt.

You are allowed to feel joy – and sorrow – at the same time.
Grief and joy often coexist. Laughing does not dishonor the person you lost. Crying does not mean you’re not grateful for what remains. Duality is part of the healing.

You are allowed to ask for help.
Healthcare providers are often the last to seek support. But grief is not meant to be carried alone. Lean on friends, on family, on mental-health professionals, on spiritual practices — or on the simple act of letting someone sit with you in silence.

You are allowed to remember.
Speak their names. Share their stories. Hang an ornament in their honor. Write them a letter. Memory keeps love alive.

And finally, you are allowed to notice the signs — the little whispers from the universe that remind you love doesn’t disappear. I’ve received many: the “Hale Manu” sign in Maui, small serendipities, and intuitive moments that assure me both Manu and my father are still near. Grief changes our relationship with the physical world, but it can deepen our relationship with the unseen one.

My hope, especially for those grieving during the holidays, is that you give yourself permission to feel what you feel — not what the season expects. You are not required to be cheerful. You are not required to be strong. You are not required to pretend you’re okay.

You are required only to be human.

And if you are a healthcare provider like me, navigating your own losses while caring for the losses of others, know this: I see you. I hear you. You are not alone in your grief, and you don’t have to carry it in silence. You have a sister in grief — during the holidays, and long after the lights fade.

Written by Dr. Parul Dua Makkar