Grief, Faith, & Invisible Disabilities
Reflecting about the holiday season
Grief has a particular way of weaving itself into every season of our lives, sometimes adding nostalgia or bittersweet memories, sometimes derailing us entirely. I find myself most often derailed especially during times when we are surrounded by family, community, and the expectations of normalcy. These moments seem to carry the weight of loss, unmet expectations, and unseen struggles in a more acute and tangible way.
My father was sick for most of my childhood. Holidays and religious events were fraught with tension and uncertainty. We grew up Hindu, but I still remember one year when he was in the hospital. My sister and I put out a fake Christmas tree, decorating it as a surprise for when he got home. We wanted to offer cause for joy in an especially heavy season. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of the season or the meaning behind what I was celebrating. We just wanted to make things better, if only for a moment.
After my father passed, I thought that would be enough. How could I possibly navigate more pain when this loud grief never seemed to leave? It’s naive, I think, to believe there’s a finite amount of suffering to go around. (In contrast, I imagine many of us are much more willing to believe and embrace that there isn’t a finite amount of joy to be experienced in this life.)
In the midst of a complicated journey with secondary infertility and pregnancy loss, I had a miscarriage while visiting family out of town to celebrate Christmas. As I experienced my own physical and emotional pain, I found myself at a dinner table trying to explain to a family member that a miscarriage is not the same as a heavy period. I had to choose to believe this person meant well, but I felt so painfully alone in that moment, trapped between what I felt was my own body’s failure and the lack of understanding I experienced.
This time of year is so tender for me. My father’s birthday was the week before Christmas, and the anniversary of that miscarriage falls the day before his birthday, as well. It never gets easier, though it changes over time. The grief becomes less acute, but it never fully disappears. There’s a unique grief in missing my dad, in knowing he never got to meet my kids or be the kind of grandparent I know he would have been. He was so good with children, and I know he would have worked hard to understand them—just like my mom has. I grieve that loss, but I also know that my faith gives me hope that God is with me in it.
Looking back, I am better understanding how my neurodivergence played a role in those experiences. I’ve always felt my emotions deeply, but I often struggle to express them. Grief, for me, wasn’t just sadness—it was emotional and sensory overwhelm, a tangled mess of feelings and bodily sensations I couldn’t always pick apart.
The holiday season continues to be painful for me, as past struggles rear their ugly heads as I parent my own children through a season that is unlike any other time of year, whether our experiences are sensory, logistical, or relational. Just last week, I had to say goodbye to my dog, a beloved dachshund named Honey. She was my first pet, and I’d had her for more than 13 years.
And yet, I insist on making this season “magical”—if only for a moment. I want to celebrate and rejoice in the story of my faith, to delight at my children’s faces every year. Because I came to faith around this time of year, too. There’s much to remember, celebrate, and learn. But even that also brings with it a tiny ache.
I didn’t grow up Christian. My parents met in Atlanta, and while we recognized “Western” (usually Christian) observances, we celebrated Hindu holidays. I struggled to relate to my peers who didn’t share those traditions. For years, I thought my feelings of disconnection were cultural. It wasn’t until recently that I realized they were also tied to my neurodivergence—to the ways I experienced the world differently.
Now, as I raise my own children in the Christian faith, I grieve the parts of my identity I had hidden or distanced myself from for so long. My children are being raised in a different religious tradition, but we still participate in Hindu holidays and Indian cultural events with my family. It’s important to me that they know and appreciate that part of their heritage—in part because I’m grieving for the parts of myself I hid or distanced myself from for so long.
Grief is complicated enough, but it takes on a whole new dimension when you factor in invisible needs for support like autism, ADHD, anxiety, sensory processing issues, and more. As a family, we’re constantly exploring how to make space for grief and advocate for what we need, even (or especially) when others don’t understand. Even (or especially) when those people are the ones we expect to know us best.
This Advent, we’re able to consistently reflect together as a family for the first time. Advent, with its rhythm of waiting and expectation, has felt particularly meaningful this year. It’s a season of longing—of making room for what has not yet come while remembering God’s faithfulness in what already has. Making room and preparing for the arrival of tiny infant Jesus as much as the resurrected Christ. Making room for the messiness of new life, of the unknown—even when we struggle with uncertainty.
This Advent more than ever, I am reminded that waiting isn’t a passive act. It’s a conscious decision to take a posture of trust. We anticipate and wait for healing, for understanding, for the fullness of what God has promised. And even in the waiting, God is present.
The grief is still here, of course. But so is the Lord. His tenderness meets us in the middle of whatever we’re going through—our grief, our struggles, our messy living rooms, our sleepless nights, and yes, our invisible disabilities.
I am exploring how to more consistently bring my whole self before God. He sees me already. He knows the broken, grieving parts. He is with the parts that feel misunderstood or messy. The parts that don’t fit in. I just have to choose to see Him, to invite Him in, to receive again and again the peace He offers—in pain, in joy, in every emotion of every season.
Bits & Bobs
Advent & Christmas Devotional | I previously shared this resource I made for neurodiverse families. Each day includes reflections and suggested activities and designed to be simple and flexible so that we can honor each of our loved ones’ capacity and needs. I’ve also created a bonus guide for grownups with some more information about declarative language and some thoughts about disability in the Bible. The first day of Advent this year was December 1, but there’s still time to engage it however you’d like. You can get the download here. (It’ll redirect to your download after you submit the form.)
Speaking of Advent… | I very much enjoyed this book on Advent by Tish Harrison Warren. I’m more committed than ever to make Christmas weird again, and I encourage you to pick it up this year. It’s brief, and there are also books for the rest of the liturgical year. I just started Emily Hunter McGowin’s book on Christmas, and I’m looking forward to reading the rest of the series.
PDA North America Annual Conference | I’m excited to share that I’ll be facilitating a discussion group alongside Amanda Diekman at the PDA North America Conference in March 2025. We’ll offer 4 sessions on Day 3 about PDA Parenting & Communication. Early bird tickets are available until 12/31.
Key Ministry Blog Contributor | I think I shared recently that I’ve begun writing occasionally for Key Ministry, as well. This one was published earlier this week.
How are y’all? | I’d love to hear how you’re doing as you navigate the holiday season and 2024 comes to an end. Are you resolution people? What does this season look like? Do you love it? Hate it? Want to fast forward to summer because you’re sick of the cold? If there are specific ways I can be praying or thinking of you, leave a comment or send me a message. I promise to pray as soon as I read it.
And that’s all for now, friends. See you next time!
"This Advent more than ever, I am reminded that waiting isn’t a passive act. It’s a conscious decision to take a posture of trust. We anticipate and wait for healing, for understanding, for the fullness of what God has promised. And even in the waiting, God is present." I really needed to hear this today. Thank you, Sunita.
Thank you for sharing this. It so helpful to me to be able to "see inside" the lives of other neurodivergent families to help me think about how to make space for the needs of my own. I often feel like there is too much grief to go around, challenges both big and small all around us. I wonder, where is the joy? It really is only by coming back to my time with the Lord that I can renew my hope and trust that He has a good and loving purpose to it all.