• When I decided to come out to my dad, I was nervous about his reaction.
• He's a lifelong Catholic, and I wasn't sure he'd be supportive.
• I needn't have worried; he told me he only cared about my happiness.

In the beginning, I'd hoped I wouldn't have to come out to my father, or the rest of my family. The first label I landed on before lesbian was bisexual, and I clung to the possibility that I'd end up with a man, and this part of me could be rendered irrelevant (yes, I know that's not actually how bisexuality works — but my younger self, just barely beginning to work through a lifetime of internalized homophobia, didn't).

Then I fell in love with a woman. I wanted to weave her into just about every aspect of my life, including my family life. It was 2021, and I'd been back in Michigan for over a year after spending that same amount of time living in Denver. That was where I'd come out to myself, away from the small Christian town I grew up in.

My parents raised my siblings and me Catholic, like they had been. When same-sex marriage was legalized, the priest of our church reassured the congregation, "Regardless of the law, we will not be conducting same-sex marriages here," and the congregation, including my dad, gave him a standing ovation.

I was nervous when I came out to my dad

Six years later, I sat in my dad's backyard feeling more nervous than I'd been since middle school cheerleading tryouts. I asked my sister to be there just in case I needed backup. I worried he would say something hurtful or disproving, and our relationship would be irrevocably changed for the worse (not an uncommon reality for queer people — in a 2021 survey, 34% of Americans asked responded they would be either "somewhat unsupportive," "not supportive at all," or "not sure" what they'd do if their child, sibling, or close family member came out as gay, lesbian, or bisexual; that figure jumps to 43% for trans or nonbinary people).

When I finally said it, he paused and nodded. "And you think this is, like, a forever thing?" I steadied myself for the worst.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, it wasn't that long ago that you had a boyfriend?"

"Oh, yeah… I would say I'm bisexual..." I responded.

"Okay." He nodded again. "And you thought your sister had to be here?"

I shrugged, "Just in case…"

Later, he asked if I'd been worried he would have been mad. "I mean, I don't know," I said. "You've been Catholic your whole life…"

He shook his head. "I think what most parents want, myself included, is for their kids to be happy."

He has been nothing but supportive

The next month, my hometown had its first Pride festival. I read a poem onstage and had a vendor booth where I wrote custom, typewritten poems. My sister and father both came for my performance and sat in my booth, and my sister brought a pack of Pride pins. When she asked my dad if he wanted one, he said sure, fastening a "Love Is Love" pin to his T-shirt.

In 2023, for the first time, we attended a non-Catholic service for Christmas Eve; my father suggested the church because of the Pride flag they hung outside. Last summer, when he visited my now-wife and me in Chicago, he set out on Sunday morning to walk to our nearest Catholic church. When he couldn't find it, he went to another Christian church. Their program featured a Progress flag with a statement about how they welcome all members of the LGBTQIA2S+ community. When he returned to our apartment, he handed us the program.

"Look at that," he said. "I think it was some kind of fate that I wound up there." Later that summer, he, along with my wife's parents, paid for our wedding. Recently, during our weekly FaceTime coffee date, my dad said, "Oh, there was something I wanted to tell you. Did you know that Eleanor Rosevelt was bisexual, or maybe lesbian?" He's been reading a book about all the presidents.

"No, actually, I don't think I did know that," I said.

My father's strongest ideology, above any religious or political kind, is his love for his children. People are complicated, but he has made this straightforward and obvious. It's meant the world to me to know that his support is a sure thing.

• My mom made the holidays special.
• The first Christmas without her in 2018 I basically turned into The Grinch.
• I re-found joy in the holidays while also grieving my loss.

My mother had a penchant for making things special.

She knew how to grab joy where she could. She decorated our home for every holiday, donning earrings and sweaters that matched the occasion.

On Christmas, she'd watch with joy while we opened her thoughtful gifts and ate our favorite holiday dishes. I don't remember a lot about the first Christmas without her in 2018. But for the next few years, like The Grinch, I wanted Christmas gone. If I'd had energy that wasn't solely dedicated to staying upright amidst my grief, I might have even taken down a Christmas tree or two in the night.

Nothing could compare to what my mom did

At 20-years-old, I didn't know how to make things special myself. I wasn't really interested in trying, either, or welcoming anyone else's efforts.

Nothing could compare to the holiday scene she'd set. No one else could make the food, decorate the house, or wrap the presents right.

I couldn't accept this truth: that everything would change. So I put a wall up between Christmas and I, white-knuckling my way through December. I didn't want to watch holiday movies or listen to holiday music. I wanted to dismiss it as any other insignificant day.

I'd get together with my family and try to pretend I was happy to be there, but I felt guilty for pretending and resentful of having to. Yet I didn't think not pretending was an option.

The thing about grief, though, is that with each year, the tide rose, washed away more grit, and left me softer.

I had to find beauty in things again

From the spring of 2019 through the spring of 2020, I spent a year living in Denver. I needed to change my surroundings — and make a change that was in my control — to teach my brain that there could be beauty in newness. I needed to learn what the newness would make of me.

When I returned to Michigan at the start of the pandemic, I returned as someone who had made new memories in a new place. It helped me accept that things could look different and still be good. The holidays could still be special if I wanted them to be.

During the Christmas of 2020, my sister and her family had COVID-19, so I stood outside their window in the snow for 15 minutes before going back to my apartment alone. I noticed, with sad poignancy, how much I wanted to be inside with her, my brother-in-law, my nephews, and my dad.

In 2021, I met my now wife, and I had the delicious instinct to make things special together. To create our own traditions. She prioritizes fun, and it rubbed off on me. I came to love taking part in her family's traditions, too. It became clear that there was so much celebration to go around, no matter what it looked like.

I look forward to the holidays now

This year will be the seventh Christmas without my mother, and I look forward to the holiday now.

My wife and I put up our tree on November 3rd. To me, Christmas symbolizes coziness, a focus on joy, an excuse for good food and extra sugar and sitting around a table with people I love.

While there are traditions, new and old, that I cherish, it's less about the specifics and more about the feeling. And, grief is a part of that feeling. It's just not such a sharp ache anymore — more like a familiar smell that reminds me of a warm and nostalgic childhood memory.

Holiday grief (and any grief, for that matter) isn't a thing to be conquered and moved on from, but a thing to accept and learn how to live alongside. In those early years, much of my strife came from wishing I could prevent change and control my feelings. When I don't set rigid expectations of myself, and instead let the tide wash over and soften me, that softness allows space for grief and joy.

I've learned how to appreciate specialness any way it comes and grab joy where I can — even if it means putting the Christmas tree up before Thanksgiving.