“This isn’t about the socks,” I thought to myself when my husband became overwhelmed trying to find a matching pair.

It was about the fact that his dad had just died.

By that December of 2018, I’d had nine months to learn, mostly by accident, the role I needed to fill for my family. I needed to be a detective, because grief, I’d discovered, loves to wear disguises.

Sure enough, grief showed up as irritability, impatience, anger, detachment, and fatigue. But because I was looking for disguised grief, I was able to respond in ways that softened defenses and offered real support.

“That’s grief talking,” I remember repeating to myself when the intensity of my loved one’s frustration didn’t match the problem at hand.

Later, when I circled back after the sock outburst, I gently said, “The first holiday after losing someone can be especially hard. And when you’re grieving, even simple problems feel impossible. Next time you get frustrated, you can always ask me for help.”

I’ll never forget his beautifully vulnerable response -- one that has shaped our family ever since:

“When I act like that, can you just put your arms around me and tell me it’s going to be okay?”

That day, I learned a loving response to someone’s deepest pain creates a healing shift -- one that ripples far beyond the moment itself.

As December 8th approaches, which is my father-in-law’s birthday, I know there will be “not about the socks” moments. I am preparing my heart for them, and I thought this might help someone else prepare too.

As we move into another holiday season, it helps to remember:

Grief wears disguises.

Fear talks in unreasonable ways.

Anxiety gets controlling.

Hopelessness withdraws.

And when these emotions are present, it is not the time to lecture, turn away, or retaliate. It is a call to love.

When we understand that fear is talking,

that anxiety is talking,

that grief is talking,

we realize this moment is not about us.

It’s about tending to the hurting human in front of us.

And that clarity allows us to offer support that feels like two loving arms,

holding the possibility that things might be okay.

My hand in yours,

Rachel