


Written by Majken Lorelei Matzau
Words shaped by decades in the room with leaders – their struggles, their breakthroughs, and everything in between


Written by Majken Lorelei Matzau
Words shaped by decades in the room with leaders – their struggles, their breakthroughs, and everything in between

Author: Majken Lorelei Matzau
Christmas is a season of extraordinary emotional complexity. For some it arrives wrapped in warmth, anticipation, and belonging. For others it carries the weight of loss, old wounds, and difficult family dynamics that the rest of the year manages to keep at a manageable distance.
I grew up in a family that gathered 14 people around the table at Christmas – a large, living family celebration full of tradition, laughter, and the particular intensity of people who genuinely know one another. Then life changed. My father died, and others followed. The family grew smaller. Those first Christmases without them carried a grief that no amount of decoration could mask.
What I have learned – both personally and through my work – is that joy and sorrow are not opposites. They move through us simultaneously, often most intensely during the seasons that carry the strongest associations. Christmas amplifies everything: the warmth of those who are present and the absence of those who are not. The connection that endures and the tensions that have never quite resolved.
For many people, the emotional weight of Christmas is not acknowledged because acknowledging it feels like a betrayal of the season's expectation of happiness. We perform joy while carrying grief. We attend the family dinner while managing the knowledge of old conflicts that will not be named. The gap between what Christmas is supposed to feel like and what it actually feels like can be enormous.
And yet – Christmas carries something rare. A collective compassion that is harder to access at other times of year. A softening of the usual defences. A willingness, however brief, to let something that normally stays closed become a little more open.
In my own family, the grief of loss gradually transformed into something else: a deeper appreciation of the people still around the table. A recognition that the rituals we keep are themselves a form of continuity, a thread connecting what was to what is.
If Christmas brings up pain – from loss, from estrangement, from family patterns that have never shifted – that pain deserves to be named rather than buried under forced festivity. The season's invitation is not to perform happiness but to be honest about where we are, and to allow the unique collective tenderness of this time to do some of the healing that ordinary time cannot reach.
Christmas can be a trauma – and it can also be the beginning of a path through it, if we are willing to bring honesty rather than performance to the table.

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