Dear Lost December

Dear Lost December,

You always arrived silently.

No grand entrance, no fireworks, no announcement—just a slow fading of golden autumn into bare trees and a biting chill that whispered change. And yet, every time you came, you brought something I didn’t expect.

But it was December of 2017 that truly changed me. That’s the one I keep coming back to—the one that never really left.

I was 19, caught between being a child and pretending to be an adult. It was my first year in college, far from home, learning to do life on my own. I had new friends, new routines, new questions—but none of it felt like it belonged to me. And then you came.

You crept in with shorter days and longer nights. The sun started disappearing earlier, and with every sunset, I felt a little more lost. My days turned into a loop of silent classes, noisy dorms, and pretending to be okay. I laughed when I had to, smiled when expected, and cried only when the world was asleep.

It was during one of those December nights that I received that phone call.

Grandma had passed.

Just like that, the one person who always waited for my calls, who made December feel like home with her warm cinnamon bread and stories of her youth—was gone. I wasn’t there. I hadn’t called in weeks. I was “too busy growing up,” or at least that’s what I told myself. But the truth was, I was drifting.

You, December, became colder that night.

Not the weather—but the silence that filled my room afterward. I stared at the ceiling for hours, trying to remember her laugh, her hands, the exact way she said my name. And I hated you for it. I hated how you reminded me that time slips, that people leave, that we forget until it’s too late.

You see, you weren’t just a month. You were a mirror.

You held up all the things I was running from—the unfinished conversations, the regrets, the vulnerability. And while others put up fairy lights and hummed holiday tunes, I buried myself in hoodies and headphones, trying to mute everything you brought.

But in your stillness, you also offered me something I didn’t notice back then: space.

Space to grieve. Space to sit with myself. Space to remember.

I began journaling, not because someone told me to, but because my heart was heavy and paper was the only place it could rest. I wrote letters I never sent. I reread messages from her that I had saved. I cooked her favorite soup, though it turned out terrible the first time. I lit candles—not for any celebration, but to feel warmth again.

Slowly, I began understanding that loss doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, and you, December, are full of whispers.

Whispers of old memories, of photos in dusty albums, of phone calls never made.

You were cruel, but you were also kind in your own cold way.

Because in your silence, I learned to listen.

Because of your darkness, I craved the light.

And through your grief, I discovered growth.

It’s been years now, and every time your name shows up on the calendar, I feel a familiar ache. But it’s softer now. Like a scar that no longer bleeds but never quite disappears. I still make that cinnamon bread, though it never tastes quite like hers. I still light candles in my room and play her favorite songs on the radio.

And yes, I still miss her.

But I also think you taught me how to carry her with me, instead of chasing the ghost of who she was. You taught me how to honor her memory, how to sit with pain without letting it consume me.

Sometimes I wonder if you visit others the way you visited me—quietly, profoundly, irrevocably. If you knock on other hearts and ask them to pause, to reflect, to remember.

Because that’s what you do best, don’t you?

You ask us to remember.

To remember who we were at the start of the year, and who we’ve become by the end of it.

To remember the people we’ve lost, the dreams we left behind, the versions of ourselves that no longer fit.

To remember that even in the coldest months, healing begins.

So, Dear Lost December,

Though you broke my heart, you also stitched it back—awkwardly, imperfectly, but stronger. You made me see that grief and love are just two sides of the same coin. That we mourn deeply only because we loved deeply. And that sometimes, remembering is the bravest thing we can do.

You are not my favorite month. You never were.

But you are the one that made me grow up.

And for that, I thank you.

Sincerely,

Someone Who Survived You