12/23/2025
Your Daily Read:
Last Christmas Eve, I went for a run because I didn’t trust myself to sit still.
The holidays can be beautiful… and brutal. They have a way of turning the volume up on whatever you’re already feeling—joy, grief, loneliness, regret. And that night, I could feel something heavy in my chest that I couldn’t name, like my body was moving but my heart was stuck.
The streets were quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own thoughts too clearly.
I passed houses glowing with warm lights—trees in windows, wreaths on doors, silhouettes moving in kitchens. Laughter leaking through walls. The world looked like a postcard.
And then I saw the house that didn’t.
One window was lit by a Christmas tree, but the rest of the room was dark. Not “cozy” dark—empty dark. The tree was on, like someone had tried… and then ran out of strength.
I slowed down, and through the glass I saw her.
An older woman at a table. No TV. No music. Just a stack of envelopes and a pen. She was writing slowly, stopping often, staring at the page like it was fighting back.
Then she reached for a second envelope. And a third.
I don’t know why, but my brain supplied the words before I could stop it:
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thinking of you.”
“Wish you were here.”
Because that’s what grief does. It makes you see it everywhere once you’ve met it up close.
I kept running, but the image stayed with me—this woman alone with her tree and her envelopes, trying to do something that clearly hurt.
When I got home, I stood in my entryway with my shoes still on, breathing hard, staring at my own Christmas lights like they were supposed to fix something.
I thought about my mom and dad.
About how there are people we love so much that even after they’re gone, we still reach for them in small ways—setting out an extra plate without thinking, saving a story to tell them, hearing a song and feeling your throat close.
And I thought about how the world keeps demanding “Merry Christmas” from you even when your heart is whispering, I’m just trying to survive this one.
I went to the kitchen drawer and found a plain card. No glitter. No perfect message. Just paper.
I wrote:
“I don’t know what you’re carrying tonight, but I saw your light on. If Christmas feels heavy, you don’t have to hold it alone. You matter. You are loved. Merry Christmas.”
I stared at the words for a long time, wondering if they were too much… or not enough.
Then I added one more line, the line I wish someone had written to me when I was trying to be “fine”:
“It’s okay if you’re not okay.”
I walked back down the street, my heart thumping in my ears like I was doing something dangerous. It felt strange to approach a stranger’s door with nothing but a card and a hope.
I slid it under the doormat and turned to leave.
And then I heard it.
The door opened—slowly, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to face the world. I froze on the sidewalk, half-hidden by the darkness.
She stepped out in slippers and a cardigan, hair pulled back, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. She picked up the card and stood there under the porch light, reading.
Her shoulders lifted once—as if she’d taken in a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
Then she did something that hit me right in the ribs.
She sat down on the top step. Just… sat. Like her legs couldn’t keep pretending.
She pressed the card to her chest with both hands and bowed her head.
And even from across the street, I could see her crying—not loud, not dramatic. The quiet kind. The kind you cry when you’ve been strong for too long and suddenly, for one second, you don’t have to be.
After a minute, she looked up and scanned the street. Our eyes met.
I didn’t wave this time. I just put my hand over my heart, like I was saying, I meant it.
She nodded once. A small nod. But it carried a whole conversation:
Thank you for seeing me.
Thank you for not making me explain.
Thank you for reminding me I’m still here.
I walked home slower than ever that day.
Because the truth is, Christmas isn’t always about joy.
Sometimes it’s about endurance.
Sometimes it’s about making it through a night you didn’t think you could.
Sometimes it’s about a single sentence on a piece of paper that keeps you from disappearing into your own grief.
And sometimes… It’s about learning that you don’t need to fix someone’s pain to change their night.
You just need to show up with a little light.
*Author Unknown*
**Question for you (and I’d love if you answered in the comments):
**If Christmas feels heavy for you this year, what’s one thing you wish someone would say to you—no fixing, no advice, just words you need to hear?
