The Holidays Can Feel Heavy

We went to a Christmas party, and it was a little too overwhelming for Clifford. While the other kids gathered to open presents, we stepped away to a quiet place. It wasn’t dramatic, and nothing went wrong. It was simply a moment where listening to what he needed mattered more than trying to participate.

These are moments you don’t always expect—ones that don’t look the way you imagined. And sometimes, even when everything is “fine,” they can still feel hard.

I’ll always follow his lead and protect his peace. I won’t push him into things that don’t feel good for him. And if our traditions, or how we show up, look a little different, that’s okay. This is what love looks like for us.

That moment stayed with me longer than I expected. Not because it was painful (well, maybe a little), but because it quietly reflected something I’ve been feeling throughout the holidays.

I’ve been trying to understand why this season can feel heavier when you’re a medical parent. On the surface, nothing is wrong. We’re invited. We’re included. We’re surrounded by people who love us.

And yet—something shifts.

I think the root of it is this: holidays often require us to leave our safe space.

At home, we exist inside a bubble that works. A place where routines are understood, accommodations are built in, and no one is watching closely. There are no sideways glances, no comparisons, no explanations required. We don’t have to translate our lives for anyone. We can just be.

But holidays usually mean stepping outside that bubble.

They mean gatherings and living rooms and tables full of people who may not know the intricacies of our days. Even when no one is judging—and often they truly aren’t—it can feel like we’re under a spotlight anyway. A quiet awareness that our life looks different. That our child’s needs are different. That our participation looks different.

We notice the things others don’t have to think about.

The accommodations.
The timing.
The exits.
The things we skip.
The things we modify.
The moments we sit out.

Sometimes it’s the questions.
Sometimes it’s the silence.
Sometimes it’s the well-meaning comments.
Sometimes it’s simply watching other families move through the day with an ease we don’t have access to.

And none of that means we don’t want to be there.

It just means being there takes more.

More planning.
More emotional energy.
More awareness.
More resilience.

As medical parents, we are constantly holding two truths at once: gratitude and grief, joy and exhaustion, connection and isolation. Holidays tend to amplify all of it. The love gets louder—but so does the reminder that our life doesn’t follow the typical script.

And that can be hard, even on the happiest days of the year.

So if holidays feel heavier for you, it doesn’t mean you don’t love spending time with family.
It doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy the traditions or want to participate in the festivities.
It doesn’t mean you aren’t deeply proud of your family exactly as they are.
And it doesn’t mean you feel judged, or that you worry what other people think.

It means that stepping outside of your safe space requires you to carry things most people never see.

And that weight is real.