By: Dr. Genna Reeves
I spent my Christmas Eve at a funeral home… and I had fun.
Not the loud, carefree kind of fun—but the quiet, grounding kind that comes from being deeply human together at Gabaldon Mortuary for their annual Lighting the Way luminaria decorating event.
I made a man smile by helping him to his car, giving him my business card, and informing him that HeartLight has a Loss of Spouse/Partner in-person support group in Albuquerque. The kind of smile that starts small, cautious, unsure if it’s allowed in a place like this—and then stays with purpose and confidence.
I offered condolences to parents who had just lost a child, and in that brief exchange, they felt seen. Not fixed. Not reassured. Just witnessed.
I watched families feel seen by the funeral home staff that served them when they were greeted with hugs by name.
I answered questions about what a grief support group is really like. Not what people imagine it to be, but what it often becomes: a place where you don’t have to explain your pain, perform your healing, or be “ready” for anything at all. I explained that a grief support group offers community and safety—a place where you are not alone, can speak honestly without judgment, and move beyond surface-level “I’m fine” conversations to share your real experience and honor the person you love. Within that shared space, you may find new perspectives, name fears that feel too heavy to carry alone, and discover that your story can both support you and offer hope to others. A man expressed deep gratitude for one of these conversations, a reminder that sometimes support begins simply with the courage to ask—and the relief of being met with honesty, not assumptions.
I spoke with a ten-year-old boy as he casually ate a pastry about the loss of his grandpa—and his two beloved dogs. We talked about how grief doesn’t sort itself neatly into categories, and how love doesn’t either. His losses mattered. All of them. And he spoke openly and with such conviction about his love for those he’s lost. He needed an adult to hear and see him, and his mom thanked me for giving him space to be open and talk.
I watched a family who attends our support groups engulfed in sorrow find a small pocket of hope—not because the pain lifted, but because they were together. They decorated luminarias in honor of someone they love, bringing their own supplies, their own care, their own way of remembering. They even made an ornament for me to take home—a quiet reminder of a day shaped by informal, shared connection. In that moment, we celebrated our humanity together. I wrote their names and date on the back and will treasure it forever.
I watched friends and community members hug, take photos to mark the moment, and walk among the car show in the parking lot. It felt like a reunion of sorts. The car show offered something unexpectedly grounding—a reason to pause, to admire craftsmanship and memory, to talk side by side without needing the weight of eye contact or the pressure of heavy conversation. For some, it was a familiar comfort; for others, simply a way to be present together while grief quietly rode along.
These moments didn’t include circles of chairs or structured sharing prompts. And yet—this was grief support.
It was presence.
It was connection.
It was humanity meeting humanity in the middle of loss – on a social level even. A time when being social can feel like an uphill battle.
It was the holistic support that I embody with grievers and HeartLight strives to provide to all we serve.
Grief doesn’t only live in support groups or therapy rooms. Sometimes it shows up on Christmas Eve, in a funeral home, around tables with markers and candles, in conversations with strangers who quickly stop feeling like strangers at all. Or it may show up at a car show while admiring the engine of a classic car, either by yourself or with family and friends. Or it may show up at a morning coffee meet-up, like HeartLight’s Mourning Coffee offering.
These are the artifacts of our shared humanity. Small, imperfect, luminous moments that remind us we are not alone—even when grief convinces us otherwise.
If you are grieving, please know this: support may not always arrive in the form you expect. Sometimes it looks like community. Sometimes it looks like laughter slipping in beside tears while you sip coffee or hot cocoa. Sometimes it looks like the blank canvas of a handmade luminaria ready to be filled with love and memories, offered with craft supplies and no agenda, only care.
And sometimes, it looks like simply being together—long enough to remember that love still finds its way through.