Christmas got me yesterday.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a quiet, sneaky way.
I was pulling out the ornaments — many of them handmade by my mom, Jan, who died in 2009. She was a spitfire. I really liked her. I still miss her.
And then Christmas did what Christmas does.
It brought up my estranged son.
It brought up the family we tried to build.
It brought up the future I once believed in — the one that didn’t fully arrive.
That’s the real sadness.
Not just loss.
Unspent love.
Love with nowhere to land.
And here’s the thing — I don’t want to stop feeling this.
I don’t want to numb it or bypass it or “be positive.”
But I also don’t want Christmas to ambush me every year and turn fond memories into a low-grade ache.
What I realized is this:
This isn’t a therapy problem.
It’s a ritual problem.
Right now, the memories arrive without orientation, so they turn into heaviness instead of reverence.
So I’m trying something different this year.
A simple seasonal ritual I’m using
Once.
Early December.
That’s it.
I light a candle. No phone. No music.
I choose a few ornaments:
• One my mom made
• One that reminds me of my kids
• One that represents me from that era
I hold them — not to analyze, just to feel.
And I speak out loud. No story. No fixing.
“Jan, I miss you. You mattered to me.”
“Asher, I love you. I still carry you.”
“I honor the family we tried to build.”
“I forgive myself for not being omnipotent.”
Then, as I place each ornament, I say one sentence:
“You belong here.”
And when I’m done, I blow out the candle and say:
“This is enough for this year.”
That part matters.
It tells my nervous system:
This memory has a place.
It doesn’t need to haunt.
It doesn’t need to spill everywhere.
The result?
I still feel the sadness — but it’s softer.
Cleaner.
More like love than regret.
The memories don’t disappear.
They become blessings instead of weight.
So yes — of course Christmas hits me every year.
But this year, I’m meeting it on my terms.
And that feels… way better.