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December's Quiet Rooms:

Where Silence Meets Light

December 2025

By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.

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December arrives with its soft light and long shadows, inviting us into a gentler pace. There is something about the final month of the year that carries both anticipation and ache: the sparkle of holidays layered over the realities of grief, remembrance, and change. For some, December is a season of celebration. For others, it becomes a room where silence settles like a guest we didn’t invite but must learn to acknowledge.

I entered this season thinking, as I often do, about the rooms of my childhood, rooms where silence was a survival strategy. I grew up in a family shaped by generational trauma, mental illness, and unspoken truths. Silence was the language we used to protect ourselves from what felt too painful or complicated to name. It taught us to keep moving, to swallow disappointment, and to hold our hurts close. It shaped how we showed up in the world and how we hid.

As I matured and eventually found my way into recovery and chaplaincy, I began to understand silence differently. Silence is not inherently good or bad. It can heal or harm. It can comfort or isolate. It can shield us or block us from the very connection we most need. And the holiday season tends to reveal what kind of silence we are carrying.

The Holidays Stir What We Thought We Had Settled:

Working as a bereavement counselor has shown me how powerful December can be for those living with loss. While the world around us leans toward celebration, many are navigating memories that rise unexpectedly:

• The empty chair at the table.
• The card we no longer receive.
• The tradition that feels different now.
• The bittersweet sound of a holiday song.
• The tension between wanting to participate and needing to withdraw.

Grief does not follow a schedule. It does not adjust itself for festivities. It can appear in the middle of a grocery store aisle, brought on by a familiar ingredient or the scent of pine. It can surface during a church service, a family gathering, or a quiet moment before dawn. For some, grief arrives as raw sorrow. For others, it comes as numbness, fatigue, irritability, or quiet longing.

If this season feels heavy or complicated, you are not alone. Many of us carry a mix of joy and sadness, hope and weariness, memory and reality. This is especially true for those who have experienced multiple losses, transitions, or unexpected changes.

The Quiet Rooms Within Us:

There is a room inside each of us where silence lives.

For some, it holds the memory of a loved one whose absence feels sharper in December.

For others, it carries the remnants of old wounds or unspoken fears.

For many, it reflects exhaustion from caring, giving, serving, or simply surviving.

But the quiet room is not a place of failure. It is a place of truth. It is where our spirits retreat long enough for us to hear what our hearts have been trying to say.

In my own journey, silence has taught me to:

• Listen without rushing.
• Trust what rises.
• Make room for what hurts.
• Invite God into the places I would rather avoid.
• Honor grief as a companion rather than an intruder.

Silence, when met with compassion, becomes a sanctuary.

Connection in a Season of Contrasts:

December asks us to navigate a paradox: the world grows louder with holiday bustle just as many hearts grow quieter. The pressure to be cheerful can feel overwhelming. The expectation to be strong can feel burdensome.

That is why connection matters deeply this time of year, not forced or performative connection, but honest, life-giving connection that honors who and where we really are.

This connection may look like:

• Sending a simple text to someone who is grieving.
• Attending a holiday event for only as long as it feels right.
• Saying “no” to an invitation without guilt.
• Creating a small ritual of remembrance.
• Sharing a story about a loved one who has died.
• Sitting quietly with someone without needing to fix anything.

Even the smallest connection can soften the hardest day.

And for those of us who carry caregiving roles, whether professionally or personally, December often brings a deeper awareness of how much people need gentleness, validation, and presence.

Letting the Light In:

What I know for certain is this: even in the quietest rooms, light still finds us.

It may arrive slowly, like the pale winter sun rising later each morning. or an unexpected moment of grace.

It may appear in a child’s laughter, a friend’s kindness, a peaceful evening, or a whispered prayer.

Light often enters through the cracks, through the place where silence meets truth.

This December, I am choosing to lean into the quiet not as a void, but as a passageway. A place where reflection grows, where healing deepens, where gratitude becomes possible even in the presence of grief. Gratitude not for the loss, but for the love that made the loss matter.

A Gentle Invitation for This Season:

• As we move through these final days of the year, I invite you to ask yourself:
• What is the silence within me trying to reveal?
• What memory needs space?
• Where might I offer myself more grace?
• What connection would nourish my spirit right now?
• Where is the light trying to enter?

There is no right way to navigate December. There is only your way, your pace, your, truth, your needs, and your rhythms.

Some will celebrate. Some will grieve. Many will do both.

And all of it belongs.

A Blessing for December:

May the quiet rooms of your life hold you gently.

May the memories that surface bring meaning, not shame.

May the grief find companionship, not isolation.

May connection find you in unexpected ways.

May silence reveal what is ready to be healed.

And may light, soft, persistent, and steady, find its way to your heart.