First Low Histamine Christmas

As Christmas gets closer, I keep finding myself sitting in this strange mix of joy and ache. I’ve always loved this season - the lights, the coziness, the feeling in the air that everything is a little softer, a little more hopeful. But this year, the holidays are brushing up against a truth I can’t avoid: this Christmas will be different. Not temporarily different… but permanently different.

This is my first Christmas living with even more restrictions that have reshaped every part of my life. It’s the first season where I feel the full weight of what’s changed - the traditions that don’t fit anymore, the foods and drinks I can’t enjoy, the simple comforts that used to feel effortless. And even though I know I can create new traditions, there’s still a grief here that deserves to be named.

I think that’s the part no one talks about. How chronic illness doesn’t just change what you eat or how you spend your energy - it changes how you participate in the world. Especially during a time of year that revolves around shared meals, drinks, gatherings, and rituals built around indulgence and celebration. When you can’t eat or drink like everyone else, it’s not just the inconvenience… it’s the quiet loneliness of feeling like you’re on the outside of something you were once fully part of.

There’s a distance that forms, even when no one means for it to. While everyone else is pouring drinks, passing plates, or talking about food for the tenth time that day, I’m over here navigating restrictions, explaining myself, worrying and fearing a flare up or silently managing the reality that my body simply doesn’t get to participate in the same way anymore.

And it’s hard. It’s hard to grieve a version of your life that can no longer exist. It’s hard to mourn the ease, the spontaneity, the traditions I used to love… knowing they aren’t coming back.

But here’s the thing I’m learning - grief and gratitude can live in the same space. I can be heartbroken over what I’ve lost and still deeply thankful for what remains. I can feel the sting of change while appreciating the people who meet me where I am. I can acknowledge the pain without losing sight of the beauty that still exists.

I’m starting to realize that joy doesn’t disappear… it just shifts. It becomes quieter, softer, found in different places than before. And I’m still learning how to make room for that. I’m still learning how to honor the heaviness without letting it swallow the light.

So if you’re walking into this season with your own mix of grief and gratitude, I’m right there with you. You’re not dramatic. You’re not “ruining the holidays.” You’re just human. You’re adapting. You’re grieving what’s gone while trying to create something new out of what’s left.

This year, I’m choosing to let both truths be true:

I’m grieving… and I’m grateful.

I’m hurting… and I’m hopeful.

I’m different… and I’m still me.

And maybe, in its own way, that’s what Christmas is about too.

Thank you for being here 💕