Holding on to Light in a Season of Shadows

The holidays have always been a time of warmth for me—soft lights, familiar songs, the quiet magic that settles over a home when the tree goes up. This year, though, that magic feels different. Softer. Heavier. More fragile.

As we move into the season, I’m carrying the knowledge that it will most likely be my mother’s last. It’s a truth that keeps catching in my chest, sharp in its grief. Every ornament I hang seems to hold a memory of her—whether it was chasing rabbits in the snow that seldom happened in Texas just to get photos, singing Away in a Manger together, or wandering the Christmas tree farm with hot cocoa in hand. I find myself reaching for those memories now, not to cling to the past but to honor it. To let them warm me, even as they ache.

Thanksgiving brought its own kind of chaos this year. Instead of a full table and familiar comfort, I found myself in a hospital room with my husband, eating Sheetz—the only place open. It wasn’t the holiday we planned, but life rarely respects those. Even so, I realized how deeply blessed I am. My family—every single one of them—showed love, support, and steadiness. And my son… he is a bright, unwavering light in all of this. The kind of light that makes you believe in hope even when everything feels uncertain.

Tonight, as we put up the Christmas tree, it struck me that this is what the season is really asking of us: not perfection, not plans, but presence. To be here, fully, with the ones we love. To treasure the time we’re given, because we never know how much more we’ll have.

This year is harder. It’s busier. It’s messier. It’s threaded with both joy and sorrow. But within that, I’m learning to hold space for all of it—the grief, the gratitude, the fear, the love. And maybe that’s what makes the lights shine brighter: not in spite of the darkness, but through it.