Remembering the Last Christmas We Shared
This will be my first Christmas without my Grandmom Willey.
Six days before Christmas, the knowing settles in quietly and then all at once. It is heavier now. Last Christmas, I had the privilege and honor of celebrating with her. I did not know it would be our last, but memory has a way of protecting what matters. I hold that day carefully.
She is one of the biggest reasons I love to write. She taught me that words are more than letters on a page. They are bridges. They are places to set feelings down when the heart cannot carry them alone. She was the ultimate storyteller, the kind who could make ordinary moments feel meaningful simply by noticing them.
That Christmas, I gave her a book of poetry, Talking to the Wild: The Bedtime Stories We Never Knew We Needed by Becky Hemsley. I read the first poem out loud to her. It was a poem about the miracle of being alive. About noticing the quiet magic that lives all around us. About how wonder does not disappear just because the world insists on facts and explanations.
It was the last truly impactful moment I had with her. A shared stillness. A shared belief. A reminder that there is more here than we are taught to see.
She smiled as I read. The kind of smile that tells you something has landed exactly where it needed to. She finished the book quickly after that, because she loved to read just as much as I do. I think we both understood that reading and writing were ways back to ourselves. Ways to escape. Ways to cope. Ways to remember that life itself is a small miracle.
Now my Grandmom is no longer physically here. And yet, I believe she is still present. Maybe more than ever. I believe she is now part of that magic the poem spoke of. In the quiet. In the noticing. In the moments that arrive softly and ask nothing of us except attention.
Grief as the Continuation of Love
Right now, what I feel most is grief.
And still, I know this is not something to fix or rush past. There is no shame here. No guilt. Grief is simply love that has nowhere to land. It is the continuation of great love, and there is something sacred in that.
Holding Magic and Ache at the Same Time
I am surrounded by family and friends. Christmas still feels magical. The house is decorated. The tree is up. There are entirely too many white lights, inside and outside. I like the soft warmth they give off. It feels steady. It feels kind.
And yet there is an ache I cannot smooth over. I miss her every day, but today it feels sharper. Six days before Christmas. Five days before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, the last time we were all together before she suddenly died on January 18.
The Calls That Change Everything
I remember the call from my mom. I did not believe her at first. I remember the call when Grandpop Willey died too, on October 23, 2019. Both times, my mom found one of her parents. Both times, she called my dad, and he was the second person there.
I try not to imagine what that moment felt like for them. The uncertainty. The shock. The waiting. The calls that follow. The kind of responsibility no one prepares you for. I wonder how they are feeling today. I hope they know there is no right way to carry this. No finish line for grief. No moment where it simply dissolves. Love does not work that way.
The Holidays Carry Old Wounds Too
The holidays hold other memories for me as well. When my marriage ended, this season was the hardest. Even now, eight years later, even with peace and reconciliation, Christmas carries echoes of survival. Of moments when I could barely hold myself together, but did anyway. Because that is what moms do.
Recently, I received photos of my kids from that time. Seeing them feels like opening a door I had gently closed. The holidays can be joyful and luminous, and at the same time heavy and exhausting. Both things can be true. I think they often are.
How I Learned to Survive
I have always known how to compartmentalize. I imagine small rooms in my mind. One feeling per space. I sit with each one, let it speak, then quietly close the door. It is not about pretending. It is about survival. About learning how to move through a world that does not always soften for you.
An Invitation to Be Gentle
I share all of this because there are people in your life right now learning how to exist inside new emotional rooms. Spaces they did not ask for. Spaces they are still furnishing with breath and courage.
Be patient.
Be kind.
Be gracious, with yourself and with others.
I will not offer clichés. What I will offer is this. As a bright red cardinal lands on a branch just outside my window, I am reminded that magic does not leave us when someone we love does. It changes form. It waits to be noticed.
You can sit.
You can listen.
To others and to yourself.
And you can allow yourself the grace to simply be.
Just be.
