This year has been an exceptionally challenging one for me and for many of the people I love. In October, I lost a dear friend to cancer, a loss that settled over everything like a deep and unexpected shadow. My husband’s health has been unpredictable, a relentless roller coaster of ups and downs, never quite reaching “stable.” There’s a constant fear lingering beneath the surface: Will he need to go back as an inpatient at Johns Hopkins? That question alone is enough to exhaust a person.
Layered on top of this is the heaviness of the world itself. The news feels overwhelmingly bleak. Stories of unkindness and cruelty seem to appear daily, and I find myself wondering why people choose harshness when life is already so fragile and fleeting. I can’t understand it. I don’t want to understand it.
And now here comes December, a month that has always carried its own emotional weight. It’s the month my father died, many years ago, and that anniversary still stirs something deep inside me. Yet it’s also the season my family has traditionally loved most. We’ve always embraced this time of year for its warmth, traditions, and moments of joy. Holding both love and loss at the same time is its own kind of emotional balancing act.
Still, I find myself continuing to decorate for Christmas quietly, gently. This year, it’s not a weekend whirlwind of garlands and lights. Instead, I’m moving slowly from room to room, spending a moment with each ornament. So many are homemade. Others are souvenirs from our traveling years, tiny, precious memories. Handling each one feels like a small act of grounding, a way of reminding myself that beauty and meaning still exist, even in difficult seasons.
I want to find my way out of this lingering sadness. I want to truly enjoy this season again, not in a big, glittering way, but in a way that feels honest and nourishing. And maybe that’s the path forward: not forcing joy, but letting it return gently, in its own time. Through a candle lit at dusk. A cherished ornament placed on a branch. A memory of my dad held close for a moment. A walk with my dog on a quiet afternoon.
This December, I’m learning that it’s possible to feel heavy and still welcome in small sparks of light. It’s possible to grieve and still decorate the tree. It’s possible to be weary and still choose kindness in a world that feels increasingly unkind.
Maybe that’s what this season will be for me: a quiet, heartfelt balancing of both the sorrow and the sweetness. A reminder that even the heaviest years still offer moments of warmth if we move slowly enough to notice them. Resilience, is a gift, after all, one we don’t recognize until life asks more of us than we ever thought we could give.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
