Hidden somewhere in my loft are some presents that have lain there for years. They're small and inexpensive: a comical wind-up ladybird toy; a turquoise beaded necklace from Marrakech. I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they're Christmas gifts I'd been gathering together to give to my Mum. They'll never make her shriek with laughter or light up her face with joy because, nine years ago, while training to run a marathon with me, she was knocked down and killed by a reckless driver.

My mother adored Christmas because it involved two of the things she loved most: a family get-together and presents. Like me, she'd scour the shops all year to find thoughtful little gifts for us all. When the big day arrived, and after every present had been handed out, she’d sit smiling with a cup of tea, watching everyone open theirs first. As a six-year-old I remember asking her how she could stand the suspense of not unwrapping anything in her pile while we tore into ours like overexcited puppies. Of course, many years later, I came to understand that witnessing others' happiness doubles one's own.

My mother died in June so I had six months to come to terms with her death before Christmas came round, yet it was still one of the hardest things I've ever had to face. Despite my father's wise words that we should focus on treasuring the years we were fortunate enough to spend with her instead of mourning the 20 or so that had been snatched away from us, it was still unbearably difficult: at Midnight Mass I found myself choking up while singing ‘Once in Royal David's City’ as my mother had adored visiting Jerusalem; back home, as I hung up my stocking, something I'd done with her throughout my childhood, I sobbed inconsolably.

Waking up the next morning I realised that, to stop Christmas becoming something I dreaded, I needed to treasure those traditions I could uphold without crying, save the rest for when I felt stronger but, most importantly, create some new ones too. So that day, my husband and I donned reindeer antlers and went for a run.

Girl with autism praised for Christmas version of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'

It seemed the most fitting way to honour my mother, who'd taken to jogging round our neighbourhood in a miniskirt in the 1970s. Her “little run” had been her sanity saver while raising three children, and it became my salvation too. Heading outdoors and exchanging festive greetings with solitary dog-walkers and, that first year, a heavily pregnant woman dressed as an elf, felt quite magical. Going running gave me time to think about my mother ahead of the Christmas cacophony of crackers being pulled and lame jokes being shared across the dinner table, which that year seemed entirely inappropriate.

Another tradition I started in 2007 was corresponding with my Mum’s close friends. For years my mother had read out one particular friend's beautifully written Christmas letter, and that December this friend sent it to me as well as my dad. I took such great comfort from reconnecting with Verna, someone whose enthusiastic spirit my mother had loved, that I began writing to several of my Mum's friends. Their annual letters have now become my most cherished Christmas gifts.

George Eliot once wrote: “Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them”, and I'm grateful that I’ve found ways to remember my Mum at Christmas without being overwhelmed by a tsunami of grief. Yes, all I really want for Christmas is my Mum's presence ‒ not presents ‒ but my new traditions are helping me keep her memory alive.