You Are Missing From Me: A Holiday Reflection on Love, Loss, and the French Saying “Tu me manques”
There’s a French expression that has always stayed with me: “Tu me manques.”
I heard it once in a movie I was watching, and it was one of those sayings that just stuck with me. We translate it as “I miss you,” but that’s not what it really says. Word-for-word, it means “You are missing from me.”
There’s something achingly honest in that phrasing—something we don’t quite express in English or maybe in any other language. It’s not just that we feel the absence of someone; it’s that their absence rearranges something inside us. In all honesty, it does not even have to be the death of a loved one; maybe it’s a recent divorce, or the death of a pet, or one I could not even begin to imagine, a child. A piece of our world shifts; a shape in the constellation of our life dims. Each breath we take hurts, and we question god, mortality and all other existence. Especially during the holidays, that feeling seems to glow in its own quiet space.
The Season of Presence—and Absence
The holidays are supposed to be a season of togetherness: full tables, warm rooms, Christmas parties, hot apple cider, exchange of thought-out gifts, special memories made, like that long-awaited sparkle, and of course, laughter spiraling upward like chimney smoke.
But for many of us, the season also casts a sharper shadow, or haunted glow. When someone we love has died, or when distance—emotional, physical, or otherwise—keeps them far from us, it becomes impossible not to feel that missing presence.
We move through the rituals: the lights, the music, the familiar recipes. And in the middle of it all, there’s that soft, persistent awareness:
You are missing from me.
It’s not a dramatic grief. It’s not even necessarily pain.
Sometimes it’s simply the space they once filled—an emptiness edged with tenderness. It is December 26th, the day celebrated by our family of multiple faiths and the beloved anniversary of our parents.
Memory as a Kind of Reunion
The French idea carries another quiet truth, maybe another culture also, I just have not found it yet: if someone can be “missing from me,” it also means they still belong to us in some way. Our love doesn’t vanish, disappear, or hide away in the back of our minds when they do. Our connection doesn’t expire when circumstances change.
Strangely, their absence proves their impact.
The absence of evidence of meaning, especially during the holiday season.
And so, during the holidays, memory becomes a kind of reunion:
the ornament they always hung, collections of worlds travelled
the song they loved, played over and over
The recipe they made was better than anyone else’s
The story they never got tired of telling
Smiling as the little ones shake packages under the tree, wondering which one is just for them.
This year, for us, it will be the new memories made as Tilly Bean smiles at the trees lit bright.
These small, ordinary things become lanterns—ways that they return to us, even if only for a moment.
Allowing Ourselves to Feel It
There is no right way to carry loss during the holiday season. No correct measure of sadness or joy. Grief doesn’t follow the calendar, and it doesn’t dim itself for festivities. Believe me, if there were a magical way to do so, I would have found it. I promise you that.
My mother-in-law lived for the Christmas season. If I recall correctly, her tree was set as early as possible, the love of baking with her sisters had started, and yes, wrapping had begun.
If this season brings someone to your mind—and to your heart—let it. No judgment here, you could not imagine how many tears I shed just as I was starting this blog.
Let yourself feel the fullness of loving someone enough that their absence still echoes.
Missing someone is not a failure to “move on.” It is an acceptance of love.
It is a testament to connection—proof that love leaves a shape that nothing else can fill.
A Gentle Wish for this Holiday season
If you are carrying someone in your heart this year, I hope you find gentle moments to honour them.
I hope you find warmth in the memories that surface.
I hope you allow yourself joy without guilt, sadness without apology, and unconditional love for those who are no longer with you.
And if the words catch in your throat, like mine, or the silence feels heavy, and tears flow, remember what the French remind us:
You are not simply missing them.
They are missing from you—because they mattered.
May this season bring you comfort, remembrance, and the quiet knowledge that love never leaves us unchanged. It just brings us full circle.
Hugs
Until next time.
Joy
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