No Crying Alone. As the Year Turns

As the year winds down, many of us slip into a quieter place without even realizing it. A pause beneath the sparkle and noise. Some of us reflect. Some feel a little anxious about what’s ahead. Others are simply tired from holding it all together for so long.

2025 didn’t land the same way for everyone. For some, it brought fresh starts. For others, it couldn’t end fast enough.

Every New Year’s Eve, we celebrate at the independent seniors home. It’s how we welcome the year. Gently. Music playing. Chairs pulled closer. Everyone arriving with the simple hope of feeling okay, if not joyful.

This year, though, something was missing.

Doreen wasn’t there.

She was the dancing queen of Sun Village. Always the first on her feet. Always the one coaxing others to join her. A month ago, she passed. The news came suddenly, and even without saying her name, you could feel the space she once filled.

In a seniors home, everyone carries their own relationship with loss. Still, no one brushed it aside. No one hurried through it. We remembered her. We smiled. And people danced anyway. Together. Hand in hand, singing Auld Lang Syne. Grief didn’t sit alone in the room.

And I kept thinking how much I hope no one cries alone during hard moments. Loss. Loneliness. Confusion. Overwhelm. We tend to disappear with those feelings. We tell ourselves not to burden anyone. We’ll deal with it later. Quietly. On our own.

I didn’t always believe crying needed company.
I thought I could handle things privately. Strongly.

Then my dad passed. Suddenly. In the middle of the pandemic.

The crying that came out of me surprised even me. It wasn’t graceful or contained. It was baby crying. The kind you can’t stop. The kind that takes over your whole body. I remember thinking, I didn’t even know I could cry like this anymore.

Not long after, my mom was moved into hospice.

I told myself I had no tears left. Surely, I was emptied out. But grief doesn’t work like that. I cried again. Just as hard. Maybe harder.

What made it even more surreal was that I had just gone through spine surgery. I was already vulnerable. In pain. Limited. If I had been truly alone during that time, I’m not sure where I would’ve ended up. I’m honest about that.

But I wasn’t alone.

There was someone there. Someone to hold me. To sit with me while I cried like a child. No fixing. No rushing. Just presence. That presence kept me from going downhill when everything in me wanted to collapse.

That’s when I learned this in my bones: grief doesn’t need solutions. It needs witnesses.

That’s why “no crying alone” matters so much to me. Not because crying is weakness. But because surviving is easier when someone is willing to sit in the mess with you.

If you’re carrying something heavy right now, I hope you don’t carry it by yourself. And if someone trusts you enough to cry in front of you, stay. That might be the thing that saves them.

I know it saved me.

The end of the year has a way of bringing everything to the surface. The wins we didn’t celebrate. The grief we didn’t touch. The times we were strong when we didn’t feel strong at all. We tell ourselves to be grateful. To be ready. To turn the page.

So as we step into a new year, maybe the intention isn’t to do more or be more. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s staying connected. Sending the text. Making the call. Saying, “I’m not okay today.”

And just as importantly, answering when someone else reaches out.

This is what I’m carrying forward: joy is better shared. And so is grief.

May this year hold you gently. Wherever this year meets you, I hope you’re not alone.

No crying alone.

Welcome to Well Within.