In December 2024, I learned what it means to grieve from a distance. I was standing in my kitchen afterwards, the quiet settling in, feeling proud and hopeful. I had just finished celebrating a milestone that should have marked a turning point in my life. And then the call came in from WhatsApp. A voice from Nigeria telling me that my dad was gone.
I was not prepared for a voice from far away telling me that someone I loved was gone. I gripped my phone, trying to listen, while my mind rushed ahead to everything I would not be able to do. In that moment, the holiday season that had felt full of promise suddenly reminded me of how far I was from home. I could not travel. I would not sit beside my family. I would not take part in the rituals that make loss feel real. I would grieve from here in Edmonton, which is oceans away from Nigeria.
This kind of grief didn’t come with a holiday dish at the door or arms wrapped tightly around me. It showed up in quiet sadness, while the world around echoed loudly with celebration.
For many newcomers and immigrants, December has a way of reminding us of where we are not. We don’t talk about this enough. The Christmas and holiday season carries a particular heaviness. Everywhere you turn, there are conversations about going home; about flights booked months in advance, family reunions planned days ahead, traditions dusted off and repeated. But for some of us, home is far away, and instead of participating in reunions and the joy of Christmas, grief finds us here. But for me in 2024, it was a different kind of grief. I was mourning home and also mourning who made home, home.
When newcomers arrive in a new country, much of the focus is on settling in: finding work, building stability and supporting loved ones back home. Rarely do we stop to consider who might be left behind over time. Years pass quietly. Five years turn into ten. And then one morning, you wake up to the news that someone you loved, someone you assumed you would see again, is gone. Just like that.
In those moments, you begin to question everything. The choice to leave. The life you are building. Whether one form of progress must always come at the cost of another. You wonder if one kind of suffering was traded for another because loss does not wait for paperwork to be approved or savings accounts to grow. It does not pause because flights are expensive or because you’ve exhausted your vacation days, and asking for time off feels risky. When someone you love dies back home, grief crosses borders effortlessly, even when you cannot.
A grief therapist once said, “There is a unique ache in knowing exactly where you wish you were and knowing you cannot get there.” She was right.
During the holidays, that ache sharpens. Christmas songs play in grocery stores. Lights flicker everywhere. People ask casually, Are you going home this year? And you smile politely, offering a shortened version of the truth. You say, Not this time, instead of explaining the cost of airfare, immigration limits or the responsibilities that tether you where you are.
So, you carry your grief quietly.
Many immigrants absorb grief in fragments. A familiar dish cooked on Christmas Eve, even if no one else knows its significance. A whispered prayer said in a language that feels safer than English when your heart is breaking. Occasional phone calls with siblings or cousins when time zones allow. But you know nothing quite replaces being there in person.
Grief from a distance is often lonely, not because there are no people around, but because few understand the layered weight of it. There is the sadness of loss, yes, but also the guilt of not being present. The gratitude for the opportunity mixed with the pain of separation. The constant negotiation between survival and sorrow.
And yet, somehow, life continues. You go to work. You respond to emails. You show up to gatherings when you can. You learn to carry grief alongside responsibility, not because it is easy, but because you have no other choice.
If you are grieving from a distance, I want you to know that your grief counts. It is not smaller because you are not there. Love does not weaken with distance, and neither does loss. Grieving from a distance is not a failure of belonging. It is proof that love travels too, stubbornly, across borders and time zones and years.
