Between Holy days and new beginnings

A barefoot December, childhood Christmases, and what really stays with us.

Hi dear one

It’s warm here, and the world keeps moving, just on a different beat. And my heart is full of memories, both sweet and sharp, as the year winds down.
That strange, sacred, sometimes suffocating season where joy and grief sit right next to each other at the dinner table. Where everything smells like oranges, cinnamon, and memories.

Being far from family this time of year hits differently.
Some of you reading this are in the thick of it, candlelit dinners, sparkling decorations, kids running wild, and aunties who won’t stop asking personal questions. That’s a beautiful kind of chaos. And also… a complicated one. Not every family gathering is smooth and loving. Some are soaked in awkward silences, passive-aggressive comments, and that one cousin who still thinks poker night on Christmas Eve is a good idea.

I know both sides.

Growing up, I had every other Christmas like a storybook. Grandparents laughing in the kitchen, the table packed with food that probably took two days to cook, board games, no alcohol and Santa knocking on the door at just the right moment. Real magic. The kind you don’t realise is magic until it’s long gone.

And then there were the other Christmases. The dimmer ones. Too much alcohol. Sharp words. Poker games that always ended in fights.
Those years didn’t feel like holidays. They felt like survival.

I learned early that joy and pain don’t follow one clear path, they take turns. Two different worlds, and I grew up crossing between them.

Now, here I am, half a planet away from my family. In the tropics, where the December sun forgets it’s supposed to be winter. The air is warm, the evenings hum with crickets instead of Christmas carols, and the calendar feels less demanding. No frost, no frenzy. Just space.
The holidays don’t look like they used to, and that’s okay. I’m not chasing the past or trying to recreate some perfect picture. I’ve found peace in doing it differently. In letting this season be what it is, not what it should be.

I know people spending these days surrounded by family and it’s not always ease and laughter. Sometimes the noise only highlights what’s missing. Just because everyone’s gathered doesn’t mean everyone’s connected. Presence isn’t just physical. And absence doesn’t mean you’re alone.
Some of the most real, steady love I feel comes from those far away, threads that hold strong, no matter the distance.

Now we’re staring at the tail end of 2025, wobbling into 2026. And let’s be honest only God knows what that even means anymore. The world’s gone mad and miraculous at the same time. A circus of extremes. Beauty and breakdowns, awakenings and absurdities, joy and injustice, all tangled in one giant ball of light and shadow.

So maybe this season, we stop trying to make it perfect.
Maybe we just let it be honest.

If you’re feeling lit up, laugh louder. Hug tighter.
If you’re feeling heavy, let yourself rest. Don’t fake it.
If you’re somewhere in between, welcome to the club.

Light a candle for the ones who are gone.
Send a message to the ones you miss.
And don’t forget yourself in the middle of it all.

This year, my prayer is simple:
May we walk into 2026 with open eyes, brave hearts, and the courage to keep showing up, even when the world doesn’t make sense.
Because it won’t.
But we will.

Until next time.
Stay grateful and curious.
Kim