Dear Friends,

Well, here we are in the thick of the most wonderful time of the year—according to the songwriters, the retailers, and that one neighbor whose inflatable nativity scene now includes a 12-foot-tall Grinch.

I’ve always said Christmas is a magnifier. If your life is full of joy, love, and matching pajamas, the holidays will amplify that like a gospel choir on caffeine. But if you’re grieving, lonely, or just trying to survive your family group text, Christmas will shine a spotlight on that too.

This year, I’m somewhere in the middle. My house smells like cookies, my bathroom has a festive hand towel (because I’m fancy now), and I’ve wrapped presents with the kind of precision that suggests I’m avoiding something deeper. But I also miss my mama and her sopaipillas—pillowy little miracles smothered in honey and cinnamon, served with love and unsolicited advice. I miss my friend and her loud, hungry children who used to eat all my food and leave dirty dishes everywhere.

Time passes. Kids grow up. Friendships shift. Family members get dramatic. And suddenly, the holidays feel quieter than they used to.

And then there’s the gift that keeps on giving, parenting adult children—an experience no Hallmark movie has ever prepared us for. This year my adult daughter is making decisions that make the Grinch look like an angel perched sweetly on top of a Christmas tree. If Hallmark were honest, they’d admit their movies are just that: movies. A tidy storyline that starts with hardship, squeezes in a snowstorm and a misunderstanding, and wraps up neatly in under an hour.

Real life doesn’t do that. Some of our storylines don’t end by New Year’s Eve. Some of them stretch on year after year, with no background music to cue the happy ending. And the hardest growth I’ve learned is this: you cannot force someone to join you on your side of happy. You can love them. Pray for them. Leave the porch light on. But you also have to accept that where they are is, at least for now, a result of their own choosing.

That lesson doesn’t come with a bow. It comes with tears, deep breaths, and the quiet courage to say, I will not let someone else’s choices steal the joy God is still offering me.

I’ve learned not to fight the ghosts of Christmas past. They show up whether I invite them or not. Instead, I let them sit with me while I watch football and hum along to carols that make me cry for no good reason.

And when the loneliness creeps in—when the tree looks too perfect and the silence too loud—I remember this:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

That’s the promise. Not that everything will be tidy or joyful or wrapped in buffalo plaid. But that light still shows up. Even in grief. Even in chaos. Even in the weird in-between.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5)

So, if your Christmas feels complicated, welcome to the club. We’ve got cookies, sarcasm, and a Savior who wasn’t born into perfection either.

I’m choosing joy this year—not because everything is great, but because I’ve decided to make peace with what is. I pray you find your version of peace too. Whether it’s loud or quiet, messy or magical, may it be just yours.

From your friend,
Me

P.S. If your tree is crooked and your cookies are burned—congratulations, you’re doing it right. Jesus was born in a barn, not a Pottery Barn. Grace over glitter, friends. And if you ever need a moment of spiritual clarity, flip on Option ID. Nothing puts life into perspective—and stirs up a little gratitude—quite like realizing it really could be worse.