Christmas 2025
This past Christmas, we did something we’ve never done before.
We let go of tradition.
With it being our first Christmas without my mom, the familiar rhythms felt unbearable. The songs, the meals, the expectations, things that once brought comfort now felt sharp. Too loaded. Too heavy. Grief has a way of changing what you can carry, and this year, we simply couldn’t carry Christmas the way we always had.
So instead of forcing ourselves through it, we chose something different.
We invited my siblings and their families to the farm.
No strict schedule. No pressure to recreate what once was. Just a shared space, good food, and the freedom to let the day unfold gently. It wasn’t about replacing my mom or pretending everything was fine. It was about acknowledging the loss and still choosing to be together.
Sam made sourdough cinnamon rolls that morning, which have become a tradition in their own right. The smell alone could be bottled and sold. Rachel’s partner, Duane, who is a chef, cooked an incredible roast, the best green beans, and a pork dish that people are still talking about. Meghna brought a puff pastry and brie appetizer that disappeared almost instantly (always a good sign!), and my sister made a sticky toffee pudding that felt like the perfect ending… rich, comforting, HEAVEN.
The food mattered, of course. But what mattered more was the way the cousins played together, filling the house with noise and movement and laughter. Watching them be together unaware of how carefully this day had been constructed was healing in a quiet way. It reminded me that joy doesn’t stop existing just because grief is present. They can sit side by side.
There were moments when the absence of my mom felt especially loud. She should have been there. She would have loved it. That ache didn’t go away. But it softened around the edges as the day went on, wrapped in shared meals and long conversations and the comfort of not having to explain how hard this year has been.
This Christmas wasn’t traditional. It didn’t look like years past. And that was exactly what we needed.
Sometimes honoring grief means loosening your grip on what should be and allowing yourself to choose what is survivable, nurturing, and real. This year, that meant the farm, shared tables, and letting love take a slightly different shape.
It was sweet. It was imperfect. And it was enough.
thankful for the cards we received this year
