Wrestling with God on Christmas

I loved Christmas as a kid. It was so magical.

There was one Christmas, when we had moved to Florida, and my grandma was moved to one of my aunt’s home on Hospice care. As sad as this was, I remember getting to spend time with her, and this time, though painful, was special, in a way.

I suppose that Christmas marked the last vestiges of my childhood innocence. Life’s end was clear. A decade on the planet, and I now knew what death looked like. I wouldn’t be a child for much longer.

I’m an adult woman now and Christmases have been harder the past few years. I’ve spent some of every Christmas the past few years in tears. I try to hide it from my family as much as possible.

The first part of the month is okay- a little stress with the hustle of getting as much done as possible. Then- with Solstice comes insomnia and anxiety, I’ve over-extended myself. Finally- the big day- tears.

I feel so bad. I feel so spoiled. I am so blessed. But…

There is so much posturing and pretending. So much pressure. I want to be joyful but my heart’s wounds feel broken open the past few years. It’s so hard.

I posted a poem about my mixed feelings on my website last year but deleted it a few days later, judging myself a spoiled woman. What mom writes about…