Christmas has a way of arriving quietly–then suddenly turning into a fond memory. 

After every reflection and intention that started it, this year’s holiday season unfolded in its own way. It wasn’t perfectly polished or over the top, but it was warm–familiar and full in the ways that mattered most. 

Looking back now, it’s not the big moments or the carefully curated traditions. It was the glow of the house, the people who filled the rooms, and the small carefully etched pieces of the season that really made Christmas.

Mom’s Winter Wonderland

If there’s one thing I can be certain of, it’s that Christmas is my mom. 

Image: Tree glowing at night (Camera Roll) 

Every year, without fail, the house is transformed into a winter wonderland that would put the Hallmark to shame.

Lights are strung around every room, decorations somehow finding their way onto every open surface, that still somehow creates a beautiful orchestra of Christmas cheer–without the overwhelming burden.

It’s perfectly layered and thoughtful, like each piece was placed with a story behind it.  

This season is her favorite. It’s in the way she moves through the house after everything is set up, pausing to tweak a snowman, centering a strand of light that’s slightly out of place.

She carries this joy in her that’s not rushed or manufactured, it’s genuine–even if she’s a little off tune with her caroling. 

Growing up, I knew every December my mom changed the theme up just a little. Even now walking into the fully decorated house still feels like crossing into another world–exciting, but but always comforting.

It’s warm in a way that goes beyond a fireplace heat–like a reminder that some traditions don’t fade, they move slowly leaving a feeling of home in its wake.  

Watching her pour so much of herself into the spaces she creates makes the season feel anchored. Like no matter how crazy and chaotic life becomes, there’s still somewhere glowing, waiting to embrace you with a warm place to sit

Christmas Eve With Chosen Family

For almost ten years, I’ve spent Christmas Eve somewhere familiar–but not my own– surrounded by people who feel like family nonetheless. 

Dinner was full and loud in the best way possible. Plates were passed around, the “kids” were in one dining room, the older folk in the other, conversations overlapped and laughter spilled into the corners of the rooms.

One cousin who is very pregnant–about to burst with twins–which somehow made everything feel more surreal, like the room itself was waiting for something new

Of course being one of the only single people in the room, I’m asked the most important questions. “When are you going to have kids?” My favorite is “You know X is single too?”  So of course I deflected with well I didn’t know you’re pimping out your son.

After that lovely and not awkward at all conversation was had, the Chinese Christmas game started, and with it the chaos.

Competitive chaos.

The kind where nobody is actually clear on the rules, and people are yelling over each other (lovingly?) and suddenly everyone is very interested in winning something they definitely don’t need.

It was loud, messy, and fun–only the good kind of ridiculous. 

Image: Soft indoor lighting with people blurred with presents

And then an odd, out of character moment happened, I absolutely wasn’t expecting. 

As we were packing to go plate and getting ready to leave, my friend’s little brother bumped my shoulder in a quick, almost-hug.

It caught me off guard–not because it was unexpected, but because it was small and unprompted. We aren’t especially close, so the gestured felt quietly meaningful in a way I didn’t or couldn’t explain. 

So my night ended the way any good one often does–full, a little chaotic, and warmer than you realize until the cold night air brings you back.

One of those evenings that settles in gently, leaving behind the feeling that you’re exactly where you need to be.