Why the "Holiday Spirit" is Actually a Major Trigger (And How I’m Healing My "Feral" Childhood) 🎄💔

Why the "Holiday Spirit" is Actually a Major Trigger (And How I’m Healing My "Feral" Childhood) 🎄💔 The air in the university library is thick with the scent of old paper and the muffled, annoying laughter of students who are already packing their bags for winter break, but all I can feel is a tightening in my throat that has nothing to do with the flu and everything to do with the fact that "home" is a concept I’ve had to invent from scratch.

There is a very specific type of silence that exists in a house after a door clicks shut for the last time, and for me, that silence started at age three when my father decided he was done with the whole "parenting" thing. It is a cold, clinical kind of abandonment that leaves a permanent draft in the room of your psyche. By the time I was five, my mother added to the collection of absences, kneeling down to kiss my forehead with a promise to return that turned out to be the ultimate gaslight. She never came back. I spent my formative years anchored only by my grandmother, and when she passed, the world effectively ran out of space for me. From age ten until I "aged out," I was a resident of an orphanage, a place where you learn very quickly that you are a number in a system rather than a person in a family.

Every single December, the "happy families" would descend upon the home like a well-meaning swarm, handing out dolls and plastic trucks as if a toy could fill the crater left by a missing parent. I didn't want the dolls. I wanted the hand-holding. I wanted the mundane, annoying "did you wear your coat?" phone calls that other kids took for granted. I realized recently, while watching a girl my age hold her father’s hand in the quad, that what I am carrying isn't just a "sad story" or a "difficult background." It is grief. Pure, unadulterated grief for a life that was supposed to be mine but never materialized.

The thing about this kind of loss is that it is totally invisible to the outside world. When someone dies, people bring over casseroles and send cards with embossed gold lettering. But no one sends flowers for the childhood you never got to have. No one acknowledges the "Gap," which is the massive, yawning distance between the safety you needed and the survival mode you were forced into. Growing up "feral" means you develop this jagged edge where you think if you don’t push for every single thing, you’ll end up with nothing. You become your own life raft, which sounds heroic in a LinkedIn post but is actually exhausting in real life. It makes relationships feel like a battlefield because you don’t know how to just be. You’re always waiting for the door to click shut again.

Even the wins feel different when you’re building from zero. I can pull a 4.0 GPA or land a massive internship, but the success feels flat. There is a hollow echo where the "I'm so proud of you" call should be. This is the reality of the "Invisible Loss." It’s a weight that can sink you if you let it, but I’ve decided to stop letting it. I’ve realized that this grief is actually a map. It points directly to the holes, and once you see the holes, you can start laying the bricks to fill them yourself. You stop being a victim of the past and start being the architect of the future.

My first step in this "safe-rant" journey of healing was to stop lying. I stopped telling people "I'm fine" when they asked about my holiday plans. Now, I name the loss. I say, "I didn't have a father who showed up, and that hurts." Naming it takes the power away from the "foggy" heaviness that used to follow me around like a dark cloud. Once it has a name, it’s a problem you can solve, not a ghost you have to fear. I’ve also started building my own structure. For someone who never had stability, a simple morning routine isn't just a habit, it’s a statement of self-governance. It’s a brick in the wall of a life that I control.

Breaking the isolation is the hardest part. My instinct is to go into "bunker mode" and hide when I’m sad. I used to think that showing up empty-handed emotionally meant I shouldn't show up at all. But I’ve learned that sitting with a friend for tea, even when I feel like a hollow shell, makes the grief easier to carry. You don't have to be "whole" to be worthy of company. And finally, I’ve learned to give the grief a boundary. I allow myself ten minutes of pure, raw mourning for the mom I didn't have. I feel the anger and the sadness fully. And then, I set the timer, wash my face, and go back to being a student with a future.

The moral of this whole situation is that the life I didn't have will always be a part of me, like a scar that aches when the weather changes. There will always be a sting when I see those "First Day of School" photos or family graduation dinners on my feed. But mourning that life is actually the start of my freedom. By accepting that those people failed their jobs, I stop waiting for them to show up and fix it. They aren't coming. And in that realization, I found my power. I am allowed to do the job now. I can be my own cheerleader. I can find a "chosen family" that actually stays. I am no longer just surviving the abandonment; I am thriving in spite of it. If you’re building your life from scratch too, just know that the foundation you build yourself is often much stronger than the one you’re given.

I’m sat here in this library, and the air doesn't feel quite so cold anymore. I’m not going "home" for the holidays, but I am staying with the person who has been there for me through everything -- myself. And honestly? That’s more than enough.