When your child can’t be home for the holidays …
For many families, the holidays mean taking lots of photos, navigating airports during some of the busiest travel days, and following carefully curated and passed-down traditions. For parents whose child is in residential treatment, wilderness, or a hospital, the holiday season feels very different. Instead of joy, there's often a heavy mix of grief, guilt, and quiet relief that your child is somewhere safe and getting the help they need, even if that "somewhere" is far from home. There's the trying to show up with a happy face with your relatives at home, while simultaneously feeling deep grief and emptiness.
When your child is away in treatment over the holidays, the household may look familiar but feels strangely hollow. The stockings may be hung, but your child isn't there to eagerly unwrap the gifts inside. You miss the sparkle in their eyes as they anticipate favorite traditions, whether it's baking and decorating cookies, leaving treats for Santa and his reindeer, dressing up in matching pajamas, or gathering with grandparents and extended family to celebrate. For families observing Jewish holidays, the absence shows up in the quieter lighting of the menorah, the missing voices singing Hanukkah songs, or the empty seat at the Shabbat or holiday dinner table. These rituals carry meaning through shared joy and connection; without your child present, they can feel like reminders of what's been temporarily lost rather than celebrations to be savored.
You may find yourself grieving not only their absence, but also the holidays you imagined for your family, and the easier childhood you hoped they would have.
Parents in this situation often describe a swirl of emotions:
Grief and sadness, missing your child's presence in every ritual and photo
Guilt and second-guessing, wondering if you could have done something differently or sooner
Relief that your child is in a structured, supervised environment instead of cycling through crisis at home
Anger and loneliness when surrounded by families who seem to be enjoying a "normal" holiday season
Choosing Treatment Is an Act of Love
Many parents describe sending a child to treatment in November or December as one of the most excruciating decisions they've ever made. It can feel like you chose a path that is punishing, even cruel. In reality, you likely chose safety and long-term healing over one more holiday that everyone just tries to survive.
Choosing treatment isn't a sign you've failed as a parent. It's often what parents do when they've tried everything they can at home and know they can't keep their child safe or stable on their own anymore. It's an act of love to say, "We need more support than we can create here," especially when family, friends, or your own inner critic don't fully understand.
Wendell Berry’s Poem Resonates
Recently, Logan Baker, a gifted therapist treating one of our clients at Blue Ridge Wilderness program in Georgia, shared the following poem by Wendell Berry, and it brought to mind so many of the families we work with:
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work.
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
This captures something about the place where many of you find yourselves right now. When you no longer know what to do, when the old ways of managing at home have stopped working, when you're baffled and uncertain, that's often when you've arrived at your real work as a parent. The decision to seek intensive treatment, especially during the holidays, is part of that real journey.
It can help to think in seasons, not single days. This particular holiday may be quieter, more painful, and very different from what you hoped. The goal is that by investing in intensive treatment now, you're giving your child and your family a better chance at safer, more connected holidays in the future.
My Personal Experience
Over a decade ago, my own family spent Christmas while one of my children was in treatment. Instead of gathering at home, we loaded the gifts into suitcases and flew to where our child was in residential care. It’s there where we celebrated Christmas in a hotel room. It wasn't the holiday we would have chosen, and it came with all the same grief, fear, and uncertainty that many of you are feeling now.
Yet, being away from our usual routines created space we never expected. As a small family unit, we found ourselves doing things we probably never would have done at home, ice skating on a frozen lake, exploring a beautiful town in the mountains outside Denver, and watching a classic Christmas movie all piled on the double Queen beds at the local Marriott. Years later, when our kids look back on that Christmas, they remember it as one of the best. Really, they do! Was it the intimacy, the novelty, or simply the fact that we were all trying to be present with each other in the middle of something hard? I'm not sure. But I share this hoping it offers some peace of mind: even in a deeply challenging situation, small, genuine moments of connection and even joy can emerge.
Some Simple Ways to Stay Connected Across The Distance
Being apart doesn't mean you're not parenting. It means your parenting looks different right now. Every program has its own rules, but within those boundaries there are often meaningful ways to stay connected:
Create small, repeatable rituals you can share. This might be looking at the same moon, saying the same short phrase or prayer, or agreeing on a simple grounding practice you both do. (One of my favorite prayers is the Serenity Prayer.)
Keep communication simple and consistent. Letters or brief check-in calls that focus on connection ("I'm thinking of you," "I loved this memory of you today") are often more regulating than long, emotional conversations that feel overwhelming.
Send something tangible but not overwhelming. A photo, a small object that connects to a shared memory, or a short note from a sibling can be a powerful reminder that your child is still held in your family's heart.
If there's a home visit over the holidays, it may help to plan for a quieter, more structured visit rather than trying to squeeze in every tradition. Keep it simple. Keeping expectations realistic reduces pressure on everyone.
Making Space for Your Own Grief
Parents often feel they have to be "the strong one" for everyone else. During the holidays this pressure intensifies, especially if there are siblings, extended family gatherings, or social media feeds full of curated joy. Yet trying to push down your grief doesn't make it disappear, it often comes out sideways as irritability, emotional numbness, or burnout.
There's nothing disloyal about taking care of yourself while your child is in treatment. In fact, your nervous system is part of your child's environment, and your ability to feel supported will impact the way you show up when you do have contact with them. It's okay to:
Let some traditions go this year, or radically simplify them
Name that this holiday will be different, without feeling you must "keep it magical" at all costs
Seek out a therapist, support group, spiritual leader, or trusted friends who can hold your story without judgment
You're allowed to have your own tears and anger. You're allowed to feel both love for your child and resentment that this is your reality.
Talking with Extended Family and Friends
One of the most exhausting parts of this season can be managing other people's reactions. Some will be wonderfully supportive. Others may offer unhelpful advice, minimize your child's struggles, or pressure you to bring them home "just for the holidays."
Having a simple script can protect your energy. You might say something like:
"This is a really hard season for us. Our child is in treatment, which is the safest place for them right now. We're grateful they're getting help, and we're also very sad they're not here. We're not able to share many details, but we appreciate your support."
You get to decide how much to share, and with whom. Clear boundaries can reduce the feeling that you're "on display" during gatherings.
Holding Hope
None of this is what you pictured when your child was little. You didn't imagine treatment centers, medication changes, safety plans, or holiday calls from a facility instead of from their bedroom. It's okay to grieve the version of parenthood you thought you would have.
At the same time, your story with your child isn't over. Parents who've walked this road ahead of you describe a quiet, stubborn kind of hope that grows over time, the hope that their child can find steadier ground, that family relationships can be repaired, and that holidays can someday feel less like triage and more like connection again. That hope doesn't require you to pretend this season is anything other than hard. It simply asks you to keep putting one foot in front of the other, trusting that the love that led you to seek help is still present, even when your child is far away.
If you're parenting a child in treatment this holiday season, you're not failing. You're doing something incredibly brave: holding love and loss in the same pair of hands, and choosing your child's safety and healing in the midst of both. Reach out if you want to talk: jennifer@teamcrossbridge.com.
