'I believed they'd come home, but they didn't.' The Christmas I lost my children.

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Christmas decorations, festive food and glittering baubles are already creeping into stores. Soon, the ads will flood our screens, and you won't be able to walk into a servo without hearing Mariah Carey.

Mainstream media sells us a version of Christmas that's all joy, laughter and family togetherness. But for many, that's not the reality. Not everyone has family. Not everyone is on good terms with theirs. Some are separated from loved ones by distance, estrangement, or circumstances beyond their control.

You probably know someone who's estranged from their children. According to the Australian Psychological Society, about one in 25 Australians has experienced familyestrangement. Clinical psychologist Joshua Coleman, author of Rules of Estrangement, says it's on the rise — driven by shifting ideas about what constitutes harm or neglect. Sometimes estrangement is necessary. Sometimes it's a healthy boundary. But it's always painful.

And it's not just adult children. After a separation, one parent can be cut out of their children's lives — deliberately and without cause. The impact ripples outward: grandparents, aunties, uncles, cousins — all missing someone they love. Five years ago, that someone became me.

Watch: Things Australians never say at Christmas. Post continues below.

My children's father withheld them from me — retaliation for his arrest and conviction for breaching a protection order. I did what I was supposed to do: filed an urgent application with the family court. I was granted an emergency hearing three days before Christmas.

Two months earlier, he'd broken our parenting plan and cut off all communication. My children were nine and 11. In those first days, I floated in a sea of confusion and tears. I believed they'd come home. I wrapped their presents. I cleaned their rooms. I put fresh sheets on their beds. But they didn't come home.

After the interim hearing — where the court delayed making a decision — I remember exiting the car park and then suddenly being 15 minutes away, in the middle of a road rage incident. I don't remember what I did. Maybe I cut someone off. But I do remember the man in front of me slamming on his brakes, getting out of his ute, and yelling. I rolled up my window, locked the doors, and gave him the bird.

I felt intimidated — but also strangely powerful. I thought, You can't take anything else from me today. I've already lost everything.

He followed me for a while. When I finally got home, I locked the doors and collapsed. My Christmas tree sparkled in the corner, surrounded by unopened gifts. I passed my son's room — his penguin teddies still on the pillow — and walked into the bathroom.

I stripped off my clothes and sat under the shower, letting the water drown out the silence. I don't know how long I stayed there. But eventually, I got out. I dried off. I put on my pyjamas. And I survived.

Three days later, it was Christmas. That morning, I waited to see my children for a few precious hours, as per the court orders. I could hear children laughing at the park next door. I assume I cried. The silence inside my house was deafening.

Only my daughter came. I picked her up and took her to my brother's for lunch. The drive felt surreal. She was just nine, but she seemed like a stranger. I gave her the camera she'd asked for, but her dad had already bought her a better one. Mine was discarded like a knock-off.

Lunch was awkward. My son wasn't there. No one knew what to say. We were all walking on eggshells, trying not to push my daughter further away. I think my family was relieved when I left.

When I dropped her off, I felt completely drained. I'd seen one of my children — but she wasn't the same. And neither was I. In just two months, everything had changed.

The months that followed were a blur. I missed my children terribly. I didn't understand what was happening. I cycled through confusion, sadness, anger, grief. I didn't know how to move forward. But I had no choice. So I kept going.

I didn't know that would be the last Christmas I'd spend with either of my children. If I had, maybe I would've tried to savour it more. Or maybe I wouldn't have been able to bear it at all.

When I googled "how to spend Christmas alone," the top suggestions were: volunteer, attend a church service, have a spa day, bake. I have friends who host "orphan Christmases" for those without family. All of these are valid. But I want to propose another option: do nothing. Treat it like any other day. You don't have to celebrate. You don't have to mark it. If you're grieving, that's okay.

I've had three more Christmases without my children since that first one. Each has been tough — achingly so. But there has also been beauty in the pain. In the quiet, I've found clarity. In the solitude, I've discovered strength I didn't know I had. Now, I choose to spend Christmas morning alone, not because I'm broken, but because I've learned what brings me peace.

I love my nieces and nephews. Their joy is infectious. But it hurts too much to witness the Santa sack unwrapping and the chaos of Christmas morning. It makes my children's absence feel sharper. I also hate the pitying smiles and the awkward hugs. It's exhausting to pretend it doesn't hurt.

So I've made a new tradition. I spend Christmas morning quietly, reflecting on what I still have. I'm not sad, or crying, or lost. I've found peace in the stillness. I still put up my tree. I still decorate it with sparkle and wonder. Its base is full of gifts for the people I love.

Sometimes I join Christmas lunch or dinner. Sometimes I don't. My life has changed a lot in five years. I've met a wonderful man whose family has welcomed me with open arms. In the past, he's spent Christmas with me in my quiet — and it was blissful. This year, we'll celebrate with his adult children after a slow, gentle morning.

So if this Christmas looks different for you — quieter, lonelier, or simply not what you hoped — know that you're not alone. Grief and joy can coexist. Healing doesn't always look like celebration; sometimes it looks like stillness, or choosing peace over performance. Life may never return to what it was, but it can still become something beautiful. Different doesn't mean broken. It just means new.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

Feature image: Getty.