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One of my favorite traditions for over a decade has been to sit down and try to write a REAL Christmas letter. Not just the highlights, but a few honest moments as well. It started as a joke with one of my friends—thinking how refreshing it would be for people to share more than just the perfect lives we’re used to seeing on Facebook and Instagram. It would be more truthful and a whole lot more entertaining. So here goes…
I struggled to write this letter more than I have in past years. The first few times I sat down at my computer, only one sentence came out: My father died in September. If I’m honest, though, the loss started much sooner. Plenty happened this year—much of it good and joyful—and I’m sure I’ll get to those stories eventually. But when I look back on this year, that loss overwhelms everything else. Some years are like that. Loss permeates, and writing a Christmas letter becomes a necessary practice of remembering and thanksgiving.
This morning, a lyric from a familiar carol caught my attention: “tidings of comfort and joy.” I noticed, maybe for the first time, that comfort comes first. I think of the holidays—lights, cookies, parties, traditions—and how easily it can all become too much. The older I get, the more complicated Christmas feels. There are empty seats at the table, tight budgets, and counters that still need to be cleaned. Holidays, I’m learning, are not only a season of joy but also a season that requires comfort. This year I'm learning that it is ok to ask for and give both.
Last winter may have been my last soccer season. I don’t miss the cold, rain, or late away games, but I do desperately miss cheering on my kid—even if she occasionally screamed obscenities loud enough to hear at the opposite end zone. Instead, she has joined Acadec, DECA, and debate. Recently she said she needed a suit, and the second she put on a blazer she lit up and asked me to buy her leopard print heels. I miss how powerful and strong she seemed on the field or back in her barrel racing days…but she seems to have found that same power in a suit and new skill sets. It is a lesson to me: that I can start new things, and that ending something makes space to begin again. That you can keep putting on new strengths (and fancy shoes always help).
Owen is still at North Texas. He is a junior with senior hours and is crushing classes that I struggled through (Organic Chem, Biochemistry, and Cell Biology). If you ask what he is learning, he can talk about protein structures at length with real joy. I used to pray before checking his grades in high school, but now he’s making the dean’s list over and over. He is involved on campus, got a job with the Biology department, and is in a new relationship. It’s wild to see your kids as adults—even if they are adults who still need you to occasionally send money and fight the apartment maintenance for them.
In spring of ’24, Shaun scratched off a bucket-list item by going to a Liverpool game at Anfield, but this year we got to do one together. We spent several days hiking around Zion National Park. I made it through the Narrows with water occasionally up to my chest and up Angels Landing (well, all except the very last part, because I am not crazy). It was beautiful and exhausting, and I can’t wait for more adventures. This year, Shaun has spent less time in the garage and more time writing campaigns and studying. He has picked up so much of my slack this year and shown up at just the right time with pies or a toolbox.
Tess is still overcommitted with five AP courses, community service, and a social calendar that makes me tired just thinking about it. We’ve started college tours, and she has completely written off entire states (like Arkansas, Oklahoma, Mississippi, and Alabama). She is more impressed by shopping and food options near campus than actual course offerings, but I’m doing my best to steer her in directions I can afford. We still have time to decide, but I’m well aware that my time with her at home is winding down. She loves her car—even with over 200,000 miles on it—and keeps it way cleaner than her room. She’s shown more independence and seems 25 some days instead of 17. Sadly we are still paying for 17- year-old car insurance and she has 17-year-old priorities. On our last 3 day trip she forgot to pack underwear, socks and deodorant but managed to pack four pairs of shoes.
Since we didn’t take a family vacation this year, my brother and I thought it was important to have a few days together at the lake. We needed to have some conversations—and possibly sign some things. I packed in as many experiences as I could for my kids and my adult (or almost adult) cousins. We fished, kayaked, rode bikes, swam, and played games. We ate well and ordered drinks at the swim-up bar. I brought a tiny fire pit for s’mores. We couldn’t all fit at the house, so my family stayed in an RV park. Next to it was the tiniest petting zoo (a sheep, a duck, and a big fluffy white dog)…and we were all smitten with the sheep and posed with Mallory the mallard in the pool. My parents mostly sat on the couch, but my dad kept it off Fox News for a change. In the mornings, he even sat on the back porch and commented on each fish they caught. My mom locked us out, threw everything away the second you got up, and mostly worried about her cats. My father didn’t always make sense and got tired quickly. It was still nice, but it wasn’t easy. I learned that I am very much NOT an RV person, but that the effort to be together matters—even when it doesn’t look like it used to.
This year I reached a long-term goal: I published a book. It still feels strange to type that sentence. For years, it was the thing I was working toward—the finish line I imagined would mark a change. The work was hard, and I’m proud of it. And then I did it—and life went on much the same as before. That surprised me. I think I believed that meeting a goal that big would alter something fundamental. But publishing a book didn’t transform my daily life. It didn’t create a sense of arrival. It felt good, but it didn’t make me anything new. That realization has stayed with me. I’ve always loved goals, but my relationship with them has shifted. Of course, I’ve started the next book—some habits don’t disappear—but the chase feels different. I’m less focused on the finish line and more attentive to what I want to share. Professionally, I’m aware of the season I’m in. I have a job I care about and plan to stay for several more years (because college tuition is expensive), but retirement is no longer abstract. I occasionally check my TRS eligibility—not because I’m ready to leave, but because it reminds me my time is finite. I’m no longer chasing promotions. What I want instead is to use the years I remain well. That shift has helped me name what matters most and let it guide my choices. It’s become the clearest filter I have—for my job and my writing. Publishing a book taught me that accomplishment alone doesn’t create meaning. Purpose does. And when I work from that place, the work feels worth doing. (That being said—my book is still available on Amazon, or you can get a signed copy from me. I want to write more…which means I need to do a better job promoting it.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about memory lately. In my work, I teach teachers and college students about learning, and I often start with a simple exercise. I ask what they wore three days ago or what they had for dinner Thursday night. Only a few can answer right away. Your brain is bad at storing things that don’t feel significant. Eventually, most can trace their steps back. This is called retrieval practice—the act of remembering again and again so our brains hold on to what matters and let go of the rest.
That idea has followed me into my faith and family history. Each month, the church I grew up in celebrated communion and read the same liturgy, The Great Thanksgiving:
The Lord be with you.
And also with you.
Lift up your hearts.
We lift them up to the Lord.
Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.
It is right to give our thanks and praise.
As a kid, I thought this had something to do with the holiday of Thanksgiving. (I mean we did have a snack.) But we were really practicing remembering. Now, after losing my father to rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s and watching my mother slowly slip away too, the practice of remembering feels urgent. Writing things down feels necessary. Remembering—of retrieving—matters.
Each December, people who share my faith stop and remember again. We don’t celebrate Christ growing older; we return to a beginning. In the darkest days of winter, in the dreary cold mornings, we remember a birth. And in that remembering and thanksgiving, something is born again in us too—a hope, a comfort, a joy.Whatever you celebrate, may this season offer you comfort and joy as you remember all that you have to be thankful for.
Merry Christmas.
In addition to my reflecting on my year - I always make a Spotify playlist of some of my favorite songs. As we get closer to the end of the year ...I'll post a list of favorite reads as well (but I still have over a week to squeeze in a few more books!). Consider both bonus content.
Ghosts of Christmases past (they go back further than this….but this is as far as I was willing to curate). I do write a monthly newsletter -- with essays and what I'm reading. You can sign up for it here.
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