A warm, softly lit Christmas scene with a slightly messy living room — board games on the table, a few scattered ornaments, a half-empty mug of hot chocolate, and a small but glowing Christmas tree.

This Christmas wasn’t wrapped in shiny paper or overflowing stockings. It wasn’t the picture-perfect holiday I used to create, the kind filled with gifts, abundance, and the comfort of routine. This year was different — harder, heavier, but strangely healing in ways I didn’t expect.

At 51, I’m not where I imagined I’d be financially. That reality hit especially hard during the holidays, when the world seems to measure joy by the number of presents under the tree. Add to that the ache of not speaking to my parents for the past six months — and worse, the feeling that they don’t want to understand why their continued exclusion still hurts — and the emotional weight of the season felt heavier than usual.
I know I get my stubbornness from them. I’m not great with change, and I’ve been waiting for them to reach out first. I don’t want to be the one to make the first move again, only to feel like I’m admitting fault. So my feelings this season have been tangled: sadness, frustration, longing, and a quiet hope that maybe one day things will shift.

Meanwhile, life at home has been its own challenge. Colin is still recovering from surgeries and working through therapies, and we’re navigating financial strain together. Our teens have been incredibly understanding, even as we explained that this year would look different — fewer gifts, fewer extras, more simplicity. And in that simplicity, something beautiful happened. We played more games. We laughed more. We spent time together without the distraction of “stuff.” It reminded me that the real gifts aren’t material at all. They’re the people we surround ourselves with, the moments where we laugh until we cry, the memories that don’t cost a thing.

It’s still been tough on me. Giving is such a big part of who I am, so having less to offer this year really stung. But it also turned into an important lesson for our teens — when money isn’t managed well, even with the best intentions, there are real consequences. We’re in a consumer proposal now, at a stage of life when we expected to feel more secure. Selling our home over a year ago was a low point, especially after it took us so long to finally get into the market. Then Colin’s old injuries resurfaced, WorkSafeBC didn’t accept claims for over a year, and we were trying to maintain things we honestly couldn’t afford — newer vehicles, hockey academies that stretched us far beyond our income, even though our son truly has the talent to be there. We’re still doing everything we can to support him. He has another invitational tryout coming up, and watching his speed on the ice is incredible. I know the chances of making the big leagues are slim — like winning the lottery — but I still hope he gets the opportunity to play juniors. With the right mindset, he really does have a shot. And as he heads into grade 10 and his final three years of major hockey, we’re giving him everything we can, even when it’s hard.

But this Christmas wasn’t only about struggle. It was also filled with moments of reconnection, forgiveness, and unexpected joy. On Christmas Eve, we spent the night at Colin’s brother’s youngest daughter’s house. It was a fantastic evening — a potluck dinner, music, laughter, and the kind of easy conversation that feels like home. Watching our kids bond with their little cousins, just 4 and 2, brought the magic of Christmas alive again. Seeing Tyler and Breanna play, giggle, and interact with the little ones reminded me how simple joy can be. It was also healing to see Colin share moments with his two older nieces, his brother, and his sister-in-law. It had been a couple years since we were all together because of a feud between myself and his brother. Being under the same roof again — and feeling the tension finally soften — was a gift I didn’t expect. Wayne and I were able to mend the hatchet, a few months back, so this Christmas was the first we had spend together again as a family. And that alone made the night feel lighter.

Boxing Day brought another beautiful moment: spending time with Colin’s older children and their spouses. Sitting around the table, listening to them share their hopes and plans for traveling to Europe next year, filled me with pride and warmth. It was one of those rare days where time slows down just enough for you to really take it in.
But being surrounded by so much family also made me miss my own older two children, Madison and Hunter, who were spending the holidays with their partners on the coast. It reminded me how fast life is moving, how quickly our kids grow into adults with their own lives, their own traditions, their own paths. It also made me think of my sister and her family — how we’ve never spent a Christmas together, not once. And how my parents were with her this year, while I sat with the ache of missing them, missing the conversations we used to have, missing the feeling of belonging.

Closing Remarks

This holiday season brought tears — tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of reflection. And layered on top of it all, Colin and I have been fighting more than usual these past few months. Financial stress, miscommunication, exhaustion — it all adds up. But even in the conflict, there has been healing. We’re learning, slowly, how to communicate better, how to support each other, how to rebuild. So yes, Christmas was different. It was emotional. It was humbling. It was honest. But it was also filled with moments that reminded me what truly matters. Not the gifts. Not the expectations. Not the pressure to appear like we have it all together. What mattered was us — our resilience, our connection, our willingness to face the hard things and still find joy in the small moments. This Christmas wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And maybe that’s exactly what we needed.