Trigger warning: This is a personal story that contains self-harm content.

Advent is one of my favorite times of year; the twinkling tree lights, carol services, and heavily scented air, rich with pine and cinnamon, never fail to excite and delight me. There is something about the glorious anticipation that fizzes inside me, invoking a childlike excitement that has been dulled by most of adulthood.

And yet Advent is also a season of darkness, where my body remembers my worst memories, and I find myself, every year, enveloped by a depression that refuses to be comforted amidst the mistletoe. The sorrow of it almost matches the joy of the season, and the two are inseparable.

It was with the first carols of the season still ringing in my ear when I first tried to take my own life, between Advent Sundays in which I tasted deep grief and, years later, would feel a longed-for baby pass from my body in a blur of pain and fear. My soul remembers the grief of December days, seeking the solace of soft light in the darkness.

It feels incongruous to me that Advent should be a season of excitement and yet, for me, evoke such grief. But when we step back and look at what Advent celebrates, that’s exactly what it does. It is a season for looking forward to the coming of Jesus, showing how he has been a part of God’s story long before the stable and the manger. Advent teaches us that joy and sorrow can coexist, as Advent ushers in the everlasting light while guiding us through accepting the darkness that remains, for a time.

Through our observances of Advent, we are celebrating our future arrival home and also acknowledging the ache of our homesickness until that day.

Isaiah 9:1-7 NIV illustrates this contradiction as it proclaims: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” It’s a reminder that we only recognize the beauty of the light when we also acknowledge and accept the darkness.

I see it in my own life when December rolls around every year. I admire the beauty of the shining lights even as I grapple with the darkness in my story and in my heart. Yet, somehow, in all the confusion that these two forces bring, I glimpse something of God’s tender heart for humanity.

He did not have to shrink himself into Mary’s womb, to experience the powerlessness of being a newborn baby, perhaps feel the fear of his parents as they fled to Egypt to escape Herod’s murderous rule. The One who crafted the stars (with the casualness that Genesis describes) did not have to experience the loss and limits of humanity — and yet He did so for our sake. He faced the darkness so that we would never be alone in our own dark night.

Advent is a gift that helps our eyes adjust to the darkness before we are dazzled with the light and hope of the reality of Jesus’ incarnation. It’s a foreshadowing of the day we will one day see God in all His glory and how our darkness illuminated His plans. It’s a reminder that our grief is not greater than the joy of Jesus’ coming because Jesus himself grew accustomed to the night — and overcame it.

And, so, as the candles are lit each week, may we hold both joy and sorrow together before our Lord, holding onto the hope of the light that will one day extinguish our despair.

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At (in)courage, we believe in making space for all stories and experiences. With heartache, we recognize the reality of self-harm. With hope, we share this story, proclaiming the help and healing that can be found in community and Christ. We are here for you, in prayer and in the comments below, should you wish to respond to this guest article. If you are in a crisis and considering self-harm, dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline which provides 24/7, free and confidential help for self-harm. You are not alone. There is help.