When I was seventeen, my grandmother—my mémère—passed away. I was just a couple of weeks away from my high school graduation and had been feeling the excitement of all the festivities about to happen. But now I was feeling this terrible loss and knew I would be going to a funeral and multiple wakes, with one scheduled for the same night as my senior-class play. I was supposed to meet up with friends so we could be together and celebrate, but with my grandmother’s death, I honestly hadn’t even considered going.

I was grieving.

That morning, though, my mother, Cecile, told me that I would be going. She said that Mémère would never want me to miss it. I don’t remember her exact words, but I can still feel, deep in my bones, her belief that this was important—and that it was completely okay to go, be with my friends, and actually enjoy myself. I have no doubt that my father, Russell, felt the same.

This moment has stayed with me my whole life.

I often noticed in my parents that through heartbreak, illness, and struggle they found ways to welcome joy: to see it, make space for it, and share it generously. Their way of being showed us, their children and grandchildren, that this is life. Joy and grief can live side by side when we allow them to, and doing so is essential to living a life that matters, makes a difference, and carries both resilience and depth.

My brother-in-law, Frank Mangano, passed away a week ago. As I write this, I am grieving the loss. And I find myself reflecting on something many of us quietly wonder: After I’m gone, will people grieve for me? Will I be remembered? Did I touch anyone’s life in a way that lasts, even through generations?

Frank will be grieved and remembered. His kindness will live on in the hearts of everyone who was fortunate to know him. He was there for anyone who needed help or support—no questions asked. He opened his heart, his home, and his resources to the people he loved.

So here we are in the holiday season, a time when loss and grief can feel even more poignant. In our family, we long for one more holiday with Frank, one more moment to share, to say hello and goodbye, and to tell him that we love him. My sister Mary and my nephew Joe are feeling it the most, two more kind, compassionate souls who are always there for anyone who needs them. They are comforted to know that Frank is now with Peter, their son and brother, another beautiful soul who left us eleven years ago.

Some of you may be moving through your own heartbreak this season. Or navigating a different kind of loss—the loss of a dream, a relationship, a certainty, a phase of life. Grief appears in many forms.

If Russell and Cecile were here today, I know what they would say to you:
During the holidays, and every day, allow joy. Look for joy. Create joy. Share joy.

And from me to you: Let it joy beside the grief. Let it soften the edges of pain. Let joy help us lovingly hold our grief and deepen the meaning of all the moments we share with those we love.

In Joy,

Ina