A silent night: Robert Alejandro's first Christmas in heaven

Grieving during Christmas is not about pretending the pain isn’t there. It’s about learning to hold the light and darkness together, finding grace in both. It’s about remembering that the very first Christmas—the story of a child born in a humble manger—wasn’t without its own struggles and uncertainties. Yet, it brought light to the world.

The holiday season and grief seem like opposites, but they share a surprising connection. Both deeply emotional experiences invite us to reflect on what truly matters. At its core, Christmas is a story of light born in darkness—a light shining through uncertainty and pain. Grief, though heavy, carries a similar thread. It reminds us of the love we’ve known and the bonds that remain unbroken, even after loss.

Continuing his mission of kindness

This Christmas, instead of giving the usual gifts, I gave flowers. Each bloom symbolized the love I share with others for Robert and the love he shared with us. Flowers seemed fitting—fragile yet resilient, vibrant yet fleeting, a reflection of life and the gift of love that continues even after someone has left.

I also printed photographs of Robert with our loved ones and gave them as gifts. I wanted to remind everyone of the precious bonds we share, the moments we’ve lived, and the connection that remains. It wasn’t just about preserving memories but highlighting the truth that love doesn’t end. The love we shared with Robert is still here, alive and beating in all of us.

To celebrate and show appreciation for all the people and communities Robert loved and served, I helped curate Hip-Hip-Hoo-RAA!, an ongoing tribute exhibition for him at Museo ng Pag-Asa. Recently, I’ve personally been giving a series of experiential workshops on the art and science of eating, which ties into the recent book we published, Living Food, a memoir disguised as a cookbook that Robert and I co-authored. All of this highlights his healing journey, his love for art, and his selfless service to the Filipino people.

It reminded me that even in grief, there is gratitude. Gratitude for the time we had, for the memories we built, and the enduring love that binds us all.

His 40th day since passing was on Dec. 15th, followed closely by his birthday on Dec. 21st, just days before Christmas. These significant dates deepened the grief that was already present. I have allowed myself to grieve fully. I don’t force myself to smile when I don’t feel like it, nor do I try to suppress the waves of sadness that come—whether in quiet moments, in the middle of a conversation with loved ones, or during the routines that once felt ordinary but now feel like gaping voids.

Simple things, like receiving his sweet, random text messages, watching our favorite Netflix series together, or the tenderness of exchanging goodnight and morning kisses, now haunt me with their absence. Truthfully, his death is still so fresh, and I’ve lost count of how many times I cry in a single day.

As I embrace my vulnerability, my heart has opened wide. I feel deeply blessed to be surrounded by loving and compassionate friends and family. Robert’s sisters—Patsy, Peggy, Meldy, and Tina—along with his nephews, nieces, and brothers-in-law, have created a safe space for me to honor my grief. They have cried with me, hugged me, and offered comfort in my most vulnerable moments. Their presence has been a true gift, reminding me that love and support can heal even the deepest wounds.

'I cry when I need to'

Before Robert, I rarely cried. But now, I honor each tear. I know that each carries the weight of my love for him, the depth of the loss, and the grace of the bond we shared. Grief is the other side of love, and I am learning to embrace it as a part of this new reality.

I am gentler with myself now more than ever. I let myself rest when I need to, cry when I need to, and simply sit with the quiet when the noise of the season feels too much. Grief has taught me to listen to my heart and honor my current state of being without judgment.

Robert and I shared a living philosophy that I hold even closer now. “Be kind and be gentle to thyself.”

Grieving during Christmas is anything but easy. There are moments when the pain feels unbearable, when the weight of his absence presses down on my chest. But in those moments, I hear his voice reminding me to be kind and gentle—to myself, to my emotions, and to this fragile journey of healing.

Christmas is often portrayed as the season of joy, togetherness, and celebration. But for those of us grieving, it can feel like the season has turned against us. Instead of warmth and laughter, there’s sometimes a cold emptiness where our loved ones once stood. How do you celebrate when your heart is broken? How do you embrace the lights and carols when the weight of loss feels too heavy to bear?

And so, I found myself asking these questions. As I navigate this tender, bittersweet time, I've come to realize that grief doesn't have to cancel Christmas. Instead, it can transform into something raw, real, and deeply meaningful.

'I am joy'

While browsing through my social media, I came across a photo collage of Robert, lovingly created by our eldest sister, Patricia Alejandro Paterno. The collage captured moments of him smiling and laughing, radiating his joy and spirit. Accompanying the images was the poignant poem First Christmas in Heaven, written by a mother for her daughter who had passed away. 

The joyous photos of Robert and the mention of Christmas stirred something painful within me. How can I feel happiness when I am grieving? The weight of it hit me like a gazillion volts—not in a good way. I felt bitter, almost envious of heaven. They get to celebrate “my joy” while I am here, brokenhearted. Admittedly, I was feeling selfish. I sobbed and cried out in pain once more.

I returned to the collage repeatedly, trying to understand why I couldn’t feel celebratory about Robert being at peace in heaven. Then, suddenly, I remembered his words: “I AM JOY.”

I’ll never forget one of the most profound moments we shared during his final days. I was beside him when he took his last breath. We were holding hands, and I whispered to him softly, almost as a prayer, “Remember who you are, Mahal Ko. You are joy. You are joy. You are joy.” That moment is both seared into my memory and wrapped in tenderness.

Years ago, during one of his hospital stays, Robert had a vivid dream—an epiphany of sorts. He told me he had visited a “handmade heaven,” a place full of art, where everything was crafted by hand. In that dream, he realized who he truly was. When he woke up, he looked at me with a light in his eyes and said, “Now I know who I really am.”

I asked him, “Who are you?”

He smiled, and with quiet certainty, said, “I AM JOY.”

From then on, whenever life felt difficult or uncertain, he would ask me to remind him of these words: “I am joy.” And I would repeat them to him, over and over. Tears would fill his eyes—not tears of sadness, but of deep joy. He would cry not out of sorrow, but because this simple reminder made him feel safe, at peace, and deeply loved.

"I AM JOY." These words have stayed with me, resonating deeply, especially now.

This is his precious gift to me—a reminder of the joy he left behind. That joy isn’t gone; it’s still here, within me. It lives in my heart, in my soul. Robert’s unconditional, gentle love continues to surround me, and I am reminded that ALL IS WELL, even in the midst of the unwell.

With this renewed perspective, I decided to share the collage of Robert’s photos on my social media, pairing it with the song Joy to the World.

As the music played alongside the collage, I felt a strange yet comforting mix of heartbreak, gratitude, and even jubilation! The lyrics of the song took on new meaning, as though they were written for him:

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come…”

Finding peace in imperfect holidays

Robert was, and is, joy. He brought so much of it to this world, and now, I imagine him carrying that same joy into his handmade heaven.

To those grieving this Christmas, remember that love never truly leaves us. It transforms, it lingers, and it shines like the stars Robert and I cherished. Grief and joy can coexist, just as they do for me now.

Robert may not be here physically, but his joy lives on—in the memories, in his art, and in the stars that light up the darkest nights. This Christmas, I will honor his joy by cherishing his creative light and humor, being gentle with myself, and sharing the love, creativity, and joy he so freely gave to the world.

As I wake up this morning, resting from a 10-hour bus ride from Manila to Isabela to spend Christmas with my folks, I light a candle in front of a portrait of two human beings smiling, arms around each other. It’s Robert and me, traveling the world together. This is my form of prayer and honoring Robert today.

This holiday season, I carry Robert’s joy in my heart. As I look up at the stars tonight, I know he is smiling down, reminding me—and all of us—that joy is eternal, and love never fades. With the choir of angels singing in jubilation, "JOY TO THE WORLD..."

It’s okay to feel both joy and sorrow during the holidays. It’s okay to cry during family gatherings or feel a lump in your throat as you see a gift that was once given by someone you’ve lost. Christmas doesn’t demand unrelenting cheer. It’s about the fullness of our humanity—holding space for every emotion, from joy to sadness to gratitude.