There is a particular stillness that lives in the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
It is not quite a holiday, not quite ordinary life. Time loosens its grip. The calendar feels more like a suggestion than a rule. Many of us move through those days in softer clothes, eating leftovers, unsure what day it is and not particularly concerned.
When I worked in consulting, this week was often a planned pause. Projects were intentionally slowed or shut down altogether. It was widely understood that this was an unproductive time, so deadlines were rarely set here. That meant no travel, no client meetings, no pressure to perform. I could simply stay home.
At the same time, my late husband’s business slowed too. Without really naming it, we found ourselves sharing a collective exhale. Those days felt dream-like. They were part celebration and part cocoon. We slept a little later. Took long walks. Let the television stay on too long. It didn’t matter if it was Tuesday or Friday. Time felt generous, elastic.
Back then, I didn’t think of this week as liminal. I just knew it felt different.
Now, I recognize it for what it is: a threshold. A space between what has been and what has not yet begun.
And grief, I have learned, is very comfortable here.
When the world grows quiet, grief often steps forward, not loudly, not dramatically, but patiently. During the busy weeks leading up to the holidays, there is so much to manage: gatherings, expectations, traditions, logistics. Grief may be present, but it often stays in the background, waiting its turn.
This week gives it room.
I notice it in the way my body slows. In the moments when I sit with a latte and realize I’ve been staring out the window longer than I intended. In the absence of structure, grief doesn’t demand attention; it simply sits beside me. Idle, but not inactive. Like it’s been waiting for permission.
There is a cultural push this time of year to reflect, reset, and resolve. To look ahead with optimism and plans. And while reflection can be meaningful, it can also feel jarring if you are carrying loss. Grief doesn’t operate on fiscal years or clean slates. It doesn’t wrap itself up neatly on December 31st.
In this quiet week, I am reminded that grief does not need to be fixed or progressed. Sometimes it only needs to be acknowledged.
Liminal spaces, whether between years, seasons, or identities, invite us to be present without rushing to define what comes next. They allow us to hold what was alongside what is. This week doesn’t ask us to move forward. It simply asks us to notice where we are.
I think that is why grief finds its way here so naturally.
There is something deeply human about allowing ourselves to linger in this space. To remember without agenda. To rest without justification. To let the days unfold without measuring our productivity or emotional resilience.
In my work now, I often talk about how we practice endings, meaning how the small pauses and rituals in our lives shape our capacity to face larger transitions, including death. This week between Christmas and New Year’s is a kind of practice. A gentle rehearsal in letting go of one chapter without rushing headlong into the next.
If grief is visiting you here, know that it makes sense. You are not behind. You are not stuck. You are simply in a space where there is finally enough quiet to feel what has been waiting.
Perhaps the most compassionate thing we can do in this in-between time is to resist the urge to label it or use it. To allow it to be what it is: a soft threshold, a breath, a pause.
The new year will arrive soon enough.
For now, it is okay to sit here, in between where memory, love, and loss can breathe together.
