Home (alone) for the Holidays

While my boys were at school during the last days before Winter Break, I spent my time tying up loose ends—gathering last-minute Christmas gifts, carefully checking my list and checking it twice.

I ran through the car wash, topped off my truck with gas, and felt ready to head over the hills and through the woods for Christmas.

Or so I thought.

The day before Christmas Eve, I went from feeling okay in the morning to downright miserable by late afternoon. At first, I blamed the construction. I had been holding the vacuum to catch Sheetrock dust while my husband cut through the wall, creating space to run plumbing. But as the day wore on, the chills set in, my energy drained, and I knew—this wasn’t just construction dust in my nose and throat.

Christmas Eve morning, my husband asked, “Good morning… how do you feel?”

One look and he already had the answer.

I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day home alone, in bed. I binged Bass Reeves, watched Victoria, and at least got to enjoy the Snoop halftime show—with a bonus Vikings win. Skol. 💜

It was my first Christmas away from everyone. I wanted nothing more than to watch my nieces and nephews open their gifts, eat amazing food, and be surrounded by family.

Instead, it was two days, two celebrations—and I’m too sick to go to either.

With my house under construction, it didn’t look like Christmas.

And being sick, it didn’t feel like Christmas.

My body stopped me in my tracks.

And to me, this year’s Christmas came with a somber message.

Not one wrapped in lights or bows—but one that asked me to slow down. To listen. To surrender plans I had carefully prepared for. To accept that sometimes the pause chooses us, whether we’re ready or not.

This Christmas didn’t sparkle.

It whispered.

And I’m still sitting with what it asked me to hear.