I have been trying to write this for months.

I’ve started it in my head a hundred times. I’ve told pieces of it to people. I’ve typed a few sentences and deleted them. I think part of me has been afraid that if I put it all down somewhere, it becomes real in a way that I still haven’t fully accepted.

Will people think I’m making it about myself? Because it’s not. And I don’t want it to be. It’s not about me. Maybe if I get it out of myself, I’ll stop replaying it because I don’t know what to do with it?

Am I ready to tell it? I don’t think I ever will be.

But here it is, this is me trying.

This is the update of the past few months.

It was April 12th. It was Greek Easter. It finally was a beautiful day after days of rain. The grass was strikingly green. The sky had finally broken open into blue, and everything outside looked newly washed and alive again.

My friend was in town, and we were all having a great weekend full of great food and lounging in the sun. That Sunday morning my 4 year old kept asking my husband to go on a side-by-side ride. I was feeling agitated and I didn’t know why. My husband was feeling tired and he didn’t know why. Both of us were off. He kept asking me, “what’s wrong with you?” and I kept saying I don’t know and I’d say, “well what’s wrong with you??” And he’d say he didn’t know.

Finally, he gets up and says “okay, I’m going to take him for a ride…this’ll wake me up!”

Famous last words.

My friend and I went out to sit on the porch while they headed down the driveway. Halfway down, they turned around and came back up, “We forgot his helmet!” We had noticed the same thing and were already about to yell at him. My friend goes inside. My husband gets the helmet and straps him back in with it.

And they go out into the field.

I replay the next few seconds over in my head repeatedly. They are both laughing. Huge smiles on both their faces. I can’t see my son’s face, but I just know it. He is squealing and giggling, and I can hear it all the way from the porch.

They make a turn. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember thinking: that’s sharp.

And it’s as if time slowed to a tick.

The back wheel sucks into the mud.

The machine starts to tilt.

The weight of the machine starts to take over.

And it rolls.

I’m out of my seat and running across 10 acres of land barefoot before it even makes its first roll. I am running faster than I ever thought possible. And I can hear my son screaming.

I black out entirely and suddenly I am next to the side by side. It had thrown my husband out of the vehicle because he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and he wasn’t wearing his helmet.

The side by side had rolled on top and over him, all 2,000 lbs. of it.

Sam is laying on the ground, and my son is suspended but he hasn’t moved. He is strapped in exactly where he had been sitting before it rolled. He is screaming crying and I can tell instantly he’s not hurt, he’s just extremely scared.

I will never get that sound ringing out of my ears.

Sam is motionless. His eyes fixed at the sky; pupils are smaller than pinpoints. He has blood on one side of his head coming out of his ear. A huge, raised bruise runs diagonally across his face and skull. There is blood dribbling down both sides of his mouth and it covers his teeth.

And he is whiter than alabaster. In my heart I know he is dead. When you see a dead body, you know what it is.

In an instant I had to make a priority. I had to get my son out. It felt like my soul was ripping.

In order to get him out, I had to put my feet on either side of Sam’s head, get on my tip toes, rest my son’s weight on my shoulder to get some slack on the seatbelt, and unbuckle. Motherhood is stepping over death to unbuckle a child.

The image of Sam’s face staring into the abyss between my feet and through me will haunt me until the day I die.

I get Cam down, make sure he’s okay, his helmet is blocking what has happened, but he can still slightly see the image of his dad lying motionless on the ground.

Of course, I don’t have my phone, and my friend is still inside the house, completely unaware that any of this has happened all within 2 minutes.

I am running back to the house screaming her name and I am screaming so hard I can feel my throat tearing and I can taste blood. I am screaming for her to call 911. She tells me later the sound was so strange she had thought it was a chicken.

I’ve grabbed my phone and I am bolting back to my husband.

I can remember fragments, but I am running and I see my neighbor flying down in his own side by side, his wife running down the hill.

When I get to Sam’s body he is still unconscious. I put my hands on either side of his face, I am feeling for a pulse. I can’t feel anything. And I’m staring into his eyes and they’re unmoving. He has dirt and silt directly on his eyes, but they are still staring into the abyss and unfeeling. I remember that detail with horrible clarity. I am spiraling. I don’t remember what I’m saying but I am staring at my hands and there is blood running through my fingers.

I hear my neighbor yell “SAM! SAM!” My friend is behind me, and she is on the phone with 911 and suddenly I am too. They ask me if my friend is the one on the other line. I am stuck in a loop pleading into the phone “are you coming are you coming are you coming are you coming are you coming” and my neighbor is hailing people off the side of the road and my friend has taken the kids inside to make sure they haven’t seen anything and more people are showing up and then it’s as if we all witness a miracle because Sam makes a huge gasp like he’s coming back into his body and he’s gasping like a fish out of water and making gurgling sounds and I am so relieved but I am also thinking this is it, he’s internally bleeding or he’s broken his spine or neck or everything.

EMS starts to arrive and suddenly he’s answering questions and telling them his name and asking over and over “where’s my son where’s my son where’s my son??”

They’re sending a helicopter and we have to get the machine off of him. My neighbor straps the machine to his side by side and he’s pulling while about 7 or 8 of us are pushing and it was still just so heavy. It took a few tries to get it up and off of him but all of us were being driven by adrenaline. We had to save him.

He’s my life and he was dying.

They close the road off. Firemen, EMS, and police are there. He’s grabbing my arm squeezing it asking if this is real.

The helicopter comes and lands in our field. Police are asking questions.

He’s flown to the hospital.

Friends are coming out of the literal woods behind us to bypass the road closure to be there with him. They had all heard it on the police scanner and they came on ATVs and side by sides taking the backwoods trails to get here.

One of my neighbors stays with the kids and I have to fix my face to go talk to them. EMS has checked out my son and he didn’t have a single scratch on him. But the first thing he says is, “I don’t want dad to be dead”. They are scared, but they are brave.

My friend drives me to the hospital where they’ve taken him and it’s 40 minutes away. When we get there he’s been taken to the trauma unit. We find out he’s broken most of his ribs on his right side, his sternum, and his pelvis, and his lung has been punctured all the way through and it has collapsed. When he breathes it looks like a wave on his chest. He’s grabbing my hand and telling me it’ll be okay and I’m just so relieved to see him and the adrenaline is coursing so hard my veins hurt. They say they’ll have to intubate him, and he won’t be awake for a few days, and they need him stable enough so they can do surgery, plate his ribs, and stabilize his chest cavity. I ask them to repeat everything twice because suddenly I can’t hear properly or understand entirely what they’re saying.

The next 24 hours we don’t hear any news. They are working around the clock to stabilize him. I don’t remember everything but I remember the waiting room. Staring at the carpet. Staring at the double doors hoping someone will come through. No one does. My friend is there the entire time holding my hand. The only person who checks on us is a kind man that prays.

I hack into his medical charts and start to see some of his test results. No spine, head, or neck injury. It is a miracle. The right side of his body is severely damaged with a few more ribs on his left side broken. He was thrown and landed on his left side, exposing his right and that’s where the machine landed. That saved his life. If he had landed on his back or even the other side, it would’ve crushed him completely or punctured his heart.

We go everyday and he is unconscious with tubes coming out of his throat and hooked up to wires at all angles and a chest tube. They are able to stabilize him enough to put him through surgery for metal plates. He has to be slightly awake for it so he can inflate his own lung. He tells me later he remembers bits and pieces, and he was fighting the nurses off because they have him on drugs that make him hallucinate and it was bad. He could feel some of it.

His mom and stepdad take a red eye flight from halfway across the country to be there. And their presence is a relief.

By the third day his eyes are open, but he still has a tube in his throat. He is trying to talk around the tube and I can just make out him mouthing “what happened??” Every time I try to tell him, his blood pressure spikes and heart rate races. Come to find out he was hallucinating and thought I was telling him he had killed someone and was going to prison. They restrained him for his own safety, which only deepened the terror already happening inside his mind. He starts to think he’s killed someone. Then he is convinced that someone is our son. He slips into a deep depression. The tube is removed.

Finally, he’s starting to come to and ask questions. I tell him everything. The look on his face when he realizes he hasn’t killed anyone. The realization that his mind betrayed him and what he had constructed wasn’t true at all was on an entirely different emotional level in and of itself that I won’t be able to shake and it could very well haunt him forever.

For the next week he is on heavy medications and can barely move. Then people are getting him to stand. Then they are getting him to walk.

I feel like he was kicked back to Earth by my dad who knew we all needed him and he had more in life to do.

And then he’s able to come home.

And even writing this I can’t believe it because I saw him dead. No one can tell me otherwise. He was dead. My nervous system is trying to accept this second half of the story because he is alive.

I see his face when I go to sleep and I hear my son scream crying. Time has passed and I can feel my mind boarding up that day but it’s still there. For weeks my son plays with his cars and says, “oh no! They’re making too sharp of a turn it’s rolling! It’s okay mommy, they’re wearing their seatbelts, they’re okay”.

He has a lot of healing to do. Physically and mentally. I am proud of the way he keeps going. His existence was questioned and then solidified with that gasping breath. He builds up his strength and endurance daily. And I am proud that even through the soreness and pain and the lingering “why?”, he’s still trying.

I’m humbled by the way everyone showed up. Bringing food, checking in, watching kids, picking a side by side off of someone. I feel the hands on my shoulders. I see them helping alongside EMS to lift his body. We joke that we need our own support group for what we saw that day because anyone that was there would tell you he was dead and I was saying my goodbyes to my husband. I joke with Sam that lucky he was unconscious for all of it because we had to see all the terrible shit! The fact he was resurrected on Easter Sunday leaves many questions and teasing’s.

I don’t think there’s a word that actually explains what having my best friend with me through it all felt like. Sleeping next to me so I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep all alone, putting dry shampoo in my hair in a parking lot when we had 3 minutes to spare before the next task we had to accomplish, letting me have my breakdown real quick when child services were coming to check on my son. I guess it was routine procedure after a life-threatening accident, but I was entering a world that was unfamiliar to me, and she was there every step of the way, no questions asked.

I spiral when I think about what could have happened. What if my son wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. What if they hadn’t come back for the helmet. What if it had rolled on my son’s side. What if this happened not on our property. What if it was in the woods. What if I hadn’t been on the porch. What if he had landed on his back. What if he had died.

And I have to stop myself. “What if” becomes a form of self-torture.

Because it didn’t happen that way.

He woke up. He’s alive. He’s healing. He’s going to be okay. He’s still here with me. My son is alive. He’s okay. He’s still here with me.

And maybe our corner of the community and our hill came a little closer that day.

I don’t know if writing this will remove it from my mind. I suspect some things never fully leave us.

Because every version of what could’ve happened ends differently.

This is the version where he lived.

I create a meticulous map of beds, a roster of seeds, a plan for orderly rows with companion planting and succession planting as the name of the game. I’m a general surveying my leafy army. And yet, every year, I realize the true generals are the seedlings I started indoors, painstakingly watching over them for months and raising them from wee babes because in my growing zone, frost is the merciless dictator.

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Tip #1: Harden off like a PRO

Let seedlings gradually spend time outside each day for at least a week before shoving them into the ground. Treat it like a tiny, leafy outdoor boot camp. Otherwise, they’ll sulk, shrivel, or their growth will be stunted.

Day 1: When the temperature outside is consistently above 45 degrees F, place seedlings in an outdoor location protected from direct sunlight and wind for a duration of one hour then bring them back inside.

Day 2: Same as above but for two hours.

Day 3: Same as above but for three hours.

Day 4: Place seedlings in location that receives morning sunlight for four hours.

Day 5: Place seedlings in location that receives afternoon sunlight for five hours.

Day 6: If temperatures remain warm both day and night (at least 50 degrees F), they can remain outside overnight. Be sure to keep them protected from animals.

Day 7: They are ready to be transplanted and if possible, choose a cloudy day. Water well after planting.

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By April, the bluestone emerges. Year after year, I dig and pry, turning over slabs as if I’m mining the Appalachian Mountains themselves. I’ve come to accept my identity as a rock farmer. Each shovel and wheelbarrow full is a test of patience, a meditation in frustration, and a conversation with myself full of cursing. No wonder this area is full of rock walls. The people who came before us needed to do something with all these rocks. Bluestone is the region’s most reliable perennial. I even wrote a sonnet for it at the bottom of this post. Oh, how I hate thee, let me count thy ways.

The fence is supposed to protect my precious plants, but the birds, deer, and bunnies are the aristocrats of the garden world. The bunnies are evolving into smaller, more mirthless creatures that can fit in between the small squares of my wire fencing. The birds have aerial attacks in their favor. The deer will eat any leaf straggler that pushes through to the other side and they use that as an opportunity to pull the entire plant through a teeny, tiny opening. Doesn’t matter that there are 45 acres of wide-open land with other vegetation, they know the fenced off garden is off limits and it has become their favorite hangout spot. A beacon in the field. They are drawn like moths to flame.

Companion planting is my secret weapon. Basil with tomatoes and carrots, marigolds near everything, fennel near nothing it likes its isolation, and of course the three sisters holy grail of planting. I whisper pep talks to my plants: “Tomatoes, if you survive, shield the carrots. Carrots, try to die gracefully and with dignity”.

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Tip # 2: Make your plants friends, not foes

Pair plants that benefit each other. Tomatoes love basil. Carrots love tomatoes and onions. They cover each other’s weaknesses. Marigolds are nature’s little bodyguards and should border everything. If you’re going to fight a (probably losing) battle, at least deploy a strategic army. I highly recommend Carrots Love Tomatoes by Louise Riotte. *I earn a small commission if you purchase from this link, however, this is the book I use like the bible for planting*

The growing season is cruelly brief here. Our last frost date is the last weekend of May and our first frost is first weekend of October. Exotic vegetables and whimsical experiments are a fantasy. My zone scoffs at me and hands me kale, squash, pumpkins, beans, and corn. The plants that thrive on neglect. Frost is undefeated and ambition is ephemeral.

Tip #3: Grow what you actually like eating

There’s no glory in endless zucchini if you hate zucchini. Pick your favorites and run with it. Tomatoes are the gateway plant for gardeners, start there if you don’t know where else.

Amidst the chaos, there is a satisfaction like nothing else when you grow your own food (maybe even pressure can it later *gasp*). Every sprout that survives and grows into something else feels like a victory. Every flower that blooms is a wink from nature. The garden teaches patience, humility, and a twisted kind of joy. Rocks remain. The deer dine. And I stand, spade in hand, plotting next season’s rebellion against frost, bluestone, and my own unreasonable expectations.

Ode to Bluestone

O bluestone slab, eternal, cold, and sly,

You rise each spring exactly where I dig.

I lift you out. By June, you’ve multiplied-

A granite Hydra playing garden gig.

No seed I sow erupts with half your zeal,

No carrot pushes upward half as strong.

Yet you, unwatered, surge beneath my heel,

A crop of rocks I’ve cultivated long.

I pry you loose with shovel, curse, and sweat,

And haul you off to form a growing pile.

But somehow in the morning, there you sit,

Another cousin smirking in the soil.

Grow tomatoes? Perhaps, if fate condones-

But clearly, I was born to farm these stones.

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I was trying to get into one of my mom’s accounts that we’ve been locked out of, and they needed to prove I was not a robot or a scammer by sending a temporary code to the account holder’s phone. Unfortunately, that account holder is my mother who has Alzheimer’s and can no longer reliably distinguish between a text message, an email, or the general concept of the internet. She is also now convinced the scammers are INSIDE her phone watching her at all times.

We had just been texting back and forth. The last read receipt was one minute prior. I sent the code. The timer began its countdown until it resets.

“Mom”, I texted, “what’s the six number code that was just sent to you?”

Radio silence.

“…mom?”

Nothing.

I called her. She answered immediately and put me on speaker phone. I could instantly tell she was at lunch and the dining room at the assisted living facility was very loud. The forks were clanking and at least four different conversations were happening simultaneously at a volume that suggested everyone there had long ago given up on indoor voices, one of those was a man at her table speaking extremely loudly.

“Can I call you back doodles?” (My nickname, cute isn’t it?)

“No, I actually don’t need to talk I just need the six numbers that were sent to your text messages” I said, staring at the countdown.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Breathe.

“Open the text messages where you and I were just talking a minute ago. It’s a green speech bubble in a square. There should be a new one from your bank that says it’s a one-time six-digit code, I need you to read me the numbers.”

Pause. Shuffling. Background commentary about someone's grandson and the loud man calls my mom by the wrong name.

“Okay,” she says, “it’s 4-3-3…”

And then she immediately interjected herself back into the conversation. She was gone.

“Mom,” I whispered through my clenched teeth, eye twitching, staring at the ticking timer. I could not even imagine this resetting and having to explain there was a new code she needed to read to me since the one we were trying at first is now expired. “What are the last three numbers?”

“OH! Sorry, where was I? Okay, 4-3-3…”

She drifted back into her lunch conversation again.

Meanwhile, the countdown circle on my screen felt like a bomb about to detonate. It felt like I was tempting fate.

“Mom. Please. The last. Three. Numbers. For the love of all things good.”

“OH! 4-3-3,” … the man at her table suddenly broke through all conversation and says, “SHE ASKED ME BACK TO HER ROOM AND I THINK SHE WANTED ME TO F*** HER!!” Please keep in mind this man is in his 90’s and in a motorized wheelchair.

My mother, raised with southern manners sharp enough to cut clean through glass, snapped, “EXCUSE ME! I am on the phone with my DAUGHTER, don’t F***ING SAY THAT S**T!!” I have never heard my mom curse like that.

You could have heard a pin drop. The entire dining room went silent.

And then, suddenly focused, suddenly precise, she said, “4-3-3-5-6-9.”

I wrote it down like I was defusing a bomb and entered it into the computer with 5 seconds to spare.

“Thank you” and I hung up. I laughed so hard after that when I called my sister she thought I was crying.

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I couldn’t stop thinking about this exchange for the rest of the day and I would suddenly break out into laughter. What I thought about later wasn’t the profanity or the drama of it, it was how desperately I needed six numbers to stay in control of a situation. The stakes felt absurdly high.

It’s strange to feel panic over a code while something much bigger is quietly unraveling. I realized much of my own life is built around maintaining order, control, keeping things from slipping out of reach, how we respond to that unraveling. How we keep routines to keep ourselves from spiraling.

How we perform our own mini rituals to keep order.

Coffee in the morning before littles are awake. Animals before scrolling. Lights dimmed low before the dark settles too deeply into the corners of the house. A weekly reset clean so the chaos doesn’t quietly stage a coup. Checking the weather like an oracle. Scanning the calendar for anything to mark and celebrate so the days don’t seem like a blur.

We like to think rituals belong to ancient people standing around fires.

But they are very much alive in kitchens at 6 am.

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Humans have always performed rituals when the world may feel unstable. The ancient Romans invoked Janus at thresholds for the new year because transitions felt dangerous.

Long before birthday parties were documented for social media, people in ancient Greece, and in many pagan religions, lit candles on round cakes as offerings to Artemis. The smoke carried their wishes and intentions upwards.

We say prayers before eating, bedtime, and when we are in need.

We decorate trees or light eight candles to remember the times of our past. We light sticks and place them in sand altars for those who could not be with us.

We bury or cremate our dead and hold ceremonies for them.

Or like my dad, turned into jewelry the poor guy. He’s been transformed into three different pieces now, which he would absolutely hate to know, and one of those pieces is at the bottom of the ocean.

The man couldn’t swim.

These rituals don’t necessarily accomplish anything. They don’t reverse death. They don’t restore order. If anything, they seem slightly ridiculous.

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Do they create community in our shared rituals? Are they something to hold onto? Is it about controlling a situation where you otherwise feel out of control? Maybe it just provides some type of containment. Gives the chaos a beginning and an end.

Even now, in the United States where we pride ourselves on independence and reinvention, we cannot stop performing our own small ceremonies that hark back to our history. We still gather around cakes and sing off-key. We still hold funerals. We countdown to midnight together. In cultures like Japan, ritual is embedded into daily rhythm like bowing, respect shown to ancestors, and communal meals, that are reminders that no one stands alone in the passage of time.

I don’t think we’ve ever outgrown rituals. I think we’ve just disguised it and called it by something else.

Productivity.

Routine,

Self-care.

But at its core, it’s the same ancient instincts.

Keeping numbers in order, marking thresholds, lighting lamps and candles.

We are more “connected” than any other generation before us.

And yet most of it is done alone, in silence, thumbs moving and swiping across screens.

Social media mimics ritual: the gathering, the witnessing, the marking of milestones. But it often removes the physical act of being together.

You can post a birthday cake without ever hearing people sing. You can announce a death without ever sitting in a room of shared grief. Post photos of dinner instead of lingering at the table.

It is ceremony without proximity. And it is so strange to think how we are so “connected” to each other, but we can still be alone. How being on social media is in actuality, a solo act.

I do it too. I share the cozy photos. I post the cake. I document the gathering. And then sometimes, after everyone leaves or the phone is set down, the house is very quiet.

We need to have a rebellion and put the focus on smaller, intimate moments. Like a family dinner. The table isn’t perfectly stylized. The food isn’t completely aesthetically pleasing (I’m a fan of the humble casseroles). Just talking about the day with each other. There are no countdown timers or six-digit codes.

It’s unimpressive and holy at the same time.

When the neighbors come over for a gathering and the lights are low and the room is warm and someone inevitably says something inappropriate and we all laugh way too loud, that feels ancient in a way scrolling never will.

I can’t stop my mother’s memory from dissolving. I can’t retrieve my father from the ocean floor.

But we can keep our own small routines to keep us going.

In a way to maybe not entirely control the chaos but at least to refuse facing it alone.

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By the time we limp into February, we are dry, in need of a heavy moisturizer for our entire body, tired in our minds and in our souls, and deeply suspicious of anyone saying things like romanticize winter. We’re too cold for that.

It’s been colder than a college frat party bathroom floor at 2am in January.

We’ve been hunkered down for weather that would rival the Great Polar Ice Cap. My washing machine froze and I did about 6 loads of laundry in the bathtub with a very large stick. I felt very Little House on the Prairie *insert jazz hands*; I was just missing a washboard. There’s extra bedding in the chicken coop, heat lamps going non-stop, Phil the rooster’s comb is vaselined up daily, a water heater plugged in, and there’s a tarp attached to the outside of the run to keep the snow and wind out (however the chickens became very confused by this and the first time being let out after it was put up they didn’t think it could possibly be their same coop that they eat and drink and sleep in daily for the past year and a half that they hid in the barn and I had to snatch them one by one and place them back in the coop so they wouldn’t get frostbite).

I’ve been carrying a pickaxe in the trunk of my car which has actually come in handy in more than one instance and I find myself becoming the best PR specialist in the world of pickaxes trying to get everyone I know to get one because it’s a very useful tool.

I picked up groceries at the store 40 minutes away because you know, rural math, and found myself saying to the shopper loading my trunk, “oh I’m so sorry let me move my…pickaxe…” and realizing very quickly what I find normal is not the same for everyone else. But hey, it’s a very useful tool and you should get one.

Over the weekend I drove to Maryland to visit my mom who has Alzheimer’s and it was also her birthday, so it was equal parts being an adult and bank logistics and equal parts driving to Annapolis to have the best dinner I’ve had in a long time. I mean you don’t get filet mignon topped with Crab Oscar, tomato on the vine with homemade burrata salad, creme brulee, and a yuzu citrus fizzy vodka drink that tasted like a Japanese mermaid’s tears around here deep in the pickaxe-carrying-country. What is Crab Oscar you ask? I didn’t know either, I thought maybe Oscar was one of the Rockefellers however they enjoyed the oysters more, but no Crab Oscar is lump crab meat in béarnaise sauce. I mean oh my god. So good. I waddled out of that restaurant wishing I’d worn my stretchy pants and then getting jostled around in the back of the car for the hour ride back because the roads weren’t entirely clear from the snow and ice storm they just had.

And when I got to the house I grew up in, my brother-in-law had done a shit job shoveling the driveway and there was a huge bump of ice of biblical proportions that I think you know by now what I did…that’s right I grabbed my pickaxe and chiseled it off the driveway like a woman who had reached her limit. A neighbor came out to investigate. He realized I was not committing a murder and promptly turned around and went back inside after making awkward eye contact. It was honestly the most respectful, neighborly thing to do.

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Anyways, standing in the house I grew up in, something landed quietly in me.

The house isn’t cozy.

And I desperately missed my home.

There are no family photos on the walls. No layered textures. Some of the walls are bright lime green. There’s overhead lighting everywhere. If there is low light, the bulbs are too cold. It’s the kind of lighting that feels like you should be confessing something. Even the temperature is always wrong.

I don’t say this with blame; I say it because cozy doesn’t happen accidentally. Someone has to decide and make it intentional.

Hygge

The Danish have a word for this: hygge. You’ve probably heard this term thrown around. It loosely means comfort, warmth, ease, and feeling safe enough to exhale. Hygge is not just candles and blankets, it is something you can feel and experience.

Hygge could be lighting, textures, the feeling of time passing through ease of conversation, when you get lost in a hobby, being able to sit in comfortable silence with yourself or someone else in the room, the feeling of being shielded from the outside world even if just for a moment. It could even be something strenuous like hiking but still considered hygge because it’s something you enjoy and you’re submerging yourself in nature.

It’s what makes you happy and recharges your soul.

Hygge can be practiced all year long, however winter it becomes more important for our sanity.

Cozy is Time

Another thing no one tells you about getting through winter is that cozy isn’t just about your space it is also about time.

Winter blurs. Cold morning, cold night, repeat. It’s grey. Road salt is coating everything. That sameness is what makes it feel endless. It’s been about -15 here for a week I mean come on. Sanity is holding on by a thread. My neighbor told me she choked on a snowflake and about crashed out.

This is where small traditions matter. Something to mark the time passing and to look forward to.

On February 2nd-when most people casually note it’s Groundhog Day-we celebrate Imbolc, the pagan holiday honoring Brigid, goddess of hearth, home, and renewal (also the protector of women and you should look her up because she is fascinating).

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In the morning, we become one with the groundhog. We go outside and look at the sky. If it’s cloudy, spring is coming soon. If it’s clear, winter plans to stay a bit longer.

This year, it was cloudy. Which should mean hope. And yet, I remain suspicious because it currently feels like we’re living in an arctic tundra and I do not always trust winter’s intentions.

Still, the ritual matters.

We make a small cake with honey to symbolize bees, who will make the flowers grow. It’s nothing elaborate or impressive. It’s just a moment that says: something is shifting, even if we can’t feel it yet.

That’s what traditions do. They give you a handhold in the dark and create a solid punctuation mark in a season that otherwise feels like one long ellipse.

And that too, is cozy.

Why People Say My House is Cozy

People often tell me my house feels cozy. And I want to say this carefully, because this isn’t about taste or money or having figured something out better than anyone else (because I can tell you I have none of these things).

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It’s about intention.

When people walk into our house, I think what they’re responding to is that it feels inhabited. Like you’re allowed to exist fully inside the space.

There are books everywhere. Not styled coffee table books but used and loved books. Books on shelves, books stacked, books within reach. Growing up, we had plenty of books but no bookcases. They lived stacked in a corner on the floor in the cold basement where no one wanted to go. I genuinely thought bookcases were a luxury item until college.

Displaying tangible books feels like saying curiosity belongs here. Knowledge lives upstairs. Life happens where the books are.

Instead of a coat closet, we have a coat rack PILED with coats. This is just a personal preference but somehow seeing the coats and the basket overflowing with gloves and hats and scarves reminds me that life is bustling here. There’s something cold and distant about a coat closet. When warmer weather hits, the coats will be washed and packed away, and the snow boots will be changed for rain boots.

The walls are filled with family photos, pictures I’ve taken and printed out, things friends have given us. The shelves are cluttered, yes-but intentionally. Trinkets with memory attached. Objects with stories. Like the woven lei given to me on my final day of work in Hawaii at the Moana Surfrider: The First Lady of Waikiki. It was given to me by my coworker who was a kapuna and it was woven by his late sister. He also gave my daughter her Hawaiian middle name when she was born, U’ilanioanela. You better believe that lei is top shelf on my bookcase where I can see it every day.

You won’t find decor bought just to fill space.

When people walk in, they’re surrounded by us. And I think that’s why it feels like a hug.

Cozy is What You Remove

I’m just as intentional about what isn’t in our home.

I avoid logos and words. Your brain is already tired. It does not need a slogan while trying to rest. Visual noise is still noise. Packaging can be just as noisy. I take things like my gluten free flour and put it in a huge glass container. Yes, it’s aesthetically pleasing but also it makes it last longer and we have mice in the country so it’s a necessity. But this can make a huge difference. Your brain is not subconsciously scanning words and taking in all that information.

This is also not to say you can’t have bright colors in your home, just let them be intentional and reflect you. We don’t need beiges and browns everywhere unless that reflects who you are, and there really are some beautiful beiges and browns. But in the example of my childhood home, why do we have lime green everywhere? We are not a green family. And also that may be my least favorites of the greens. I do love green now as an adult it’s one of my favorite colors, but I like the deep greens that remind you of plants and pine trees.

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Lighting is low and warm. During the day, natural light is king. Yes, sometimes an overhead light is necessary but as soon as the sun starts to go down, I turn into the hygge fairy and turn all the lights off and turn the low lights on. I’ve also been known to do a turn down service on all the beds.

Scent matters. I don’t use plug-ins or harsh fragrances. They’re loud and announce themselves (and they’re full of parabens and disgusting chemicals). I stick to warm floral or herbal scents from essential oils and natural candles, things that sit quietly in the background.

Materials matter more than we think. Studies have shown that natural materials that remind us of nature and the outside world make us calmer. When I bring things into the home, they’re usually wood, ceramic, metal, or glass. This includes in the kitchen. Metal utensils, ceramic and wooden bowls. Glass canisters for storage. Cast iron pots and pans. Things with weight. Things that last. Things that feel good in your hands.

A big woven basket full of blankets of different textures sits in the corner. The guest room has lots of pillows and blankets with the duvet turned down and if you stay, I usually put some flowers in a vase at the foot of your bed with the lights dimmed low. There’s probably something baking in the oven in the morning.

Cozy is sensory.

A House You Can Be Yourself In

The best compliment I hear isn’t “your house is beautiful” it’s “I feel relaxed” or even better when I catch someone falling asleep on the sofa. You know as a kid when you fall asleep in the car while your parents are driving home after going out to eat and you feel so comfortable and trusting in that presence that you can nod off? That’s how I feel when someone falls asleep on my sofa. That they feel comfortable and safe enough to nod off.

In our house, it’s okay to make a mess. We clean up after-but there’s no fear attached to living. Kids draw directly on the kitchen table because my husband built it with a chalkboard top on purpose. Musical instruments hang on the wall held by a rack he made himself. They’re not precious. They’re made to be used and loved.

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We’re not particularly artsy people, but we believe deeply in using your hands and the pursuit of knowledge, learning, and curiosity.

I think people feel that. There’s no anxiety about spilling something or being too loud or falling asleep in the company of others. You can just be yourself here.

That to me is the deepest kind of cozy.

I Hate “Self-Care”

I’m just going to say this plainly: I hate the term self-care.

It makes my skin crawl-not because caring for yourself is bad, but because the term has been flattened into something optional and performative. And worst of all, an excuse to not do other things because you need time to “self-care”. A mask, a candle, a cup of tea. Something you do once you’ve earned it by surviving your own life.

You should be caring for yourself anyway.

I say this as a mother of two, with my youngest turning four soon. I know how hard it is to care for yourself when you are responsible for other humans who depend on you. Some days, privacy is a luxury and rest feels theoretical.

Which is exactly why experiences matter more than products.

Small traditions and small rituals like seeing if it’s cloudy in the morning on February 2nd and baking a honey cake. Going outside for a nature walk even when it’s cold. Opening your windows every single day for 10 minutes to circulate the air (it’s good for your health).

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Those carry more weight than any expensive mask ever could. And when you build cozy into your space and the everyday you are practicing care constantly, not just when you’re desperate.

However, when we are putting intention into being cozy, we do have to think about ourselves and what we like. Constricting clothes? Not cozy. Does that mean we need to wear baggy sweats? Absolutely not. But let’s wear soft sweaters. If we’re wearing jeans, make sure they fit comfortably. If your clothes are uncomfortable, you are uncomfortable. DUH.

In the wintertime, I use a heavier moisturizer. No one wants dry, tight skin. Use a moisturizing hair mask and get rid of some of that static. Hair attached to your face and lips? Not cozy. On that note you should also be running a humidifier 24/7 AND remember to clean it with vinegar once a week. Moldy humidifier? Not cozy.

Health is cozy.

Cozy Home Guide

1. Warm, low lighting

2. Objects with stories, not filler

3. Books displayed where people live, not hidden away

4. Natural materials whenever possible, stay away from plastic

5. Fewer words and logos, less visual noise

6. Scents that whisper, not shout

7. Permission to make a mess and clean it later

The Point

Cozy isn’t about having a beautiful house and lighting candles. It’s about creating a space where people, yourself included, feel safe enough to exhale.

That safety comes from warmth, memory, softness, and permission to exist.

You don’t need to romanticize winter. You need to tend to yourself like someone worth tending to. And no, I do not mean self-care. Blegh. IT’S JUST TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF.

Build cozy where you are, with what you have, on purpose.

And please for the love of all things good, turn off your sterile overhead lights.

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This month marks three years since my dad died. Grief has taught me some things. Mainly, that if you are going through it as well, we can hold hands and walk it together if you like.

Grief does not fade. It does not soften or loosen or politely step aside so life can continue uninterrupted. It sets like something poured and left to harden. I have learned to live inside it without constantly scraping against the edges- until something ordinary knocks me off balance and I remember: this is permanent.

I don’t believe in saying he “passed away” or he’s “gone somewhere better”. Those phrases feel like linguistic sedatives, meant to keep the living calm. The truth is uglier and less survivable: he died badly. And very slowly. And in pain. After six years of cancer that people summarize politely, as if listing the nouns makes the reality easier to tolerate. Multiple Myeloma. Bone Marrow. Lymphoma. Chemo. Remission. Relapse. And the people just nod their heads. It didn’t feel like passing. It felt like staying too long in places no one should have to stay. Passing sounds as if it was comfortable and gentle, and this was not.

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He told me he had cancer the day after my wedding. I had wondered why his limp was a bit more pronounced than usual. Why he leaned on me a little harder during our dance.

Joy and mortality arrived at the door together. Life and death, shoulder to shoulder, asking to be let in. Champagne bubbles and cancer cells now occupy the same memory. Never knew that six years later the song I had danced to with my husband would then be played at his funeral being it was one of his favorites. That was a moment time split cleanly in two, before we knew, of everything that would come after.

We like to imagine life and death as opposites. As if one enters only after the other exits. Grief teaches you otherwise. They dance together constantly. Birth is a confrontation with death. Love is an agreement to lose. Every beginning carries its ending quietly inside it.

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Sometimes I wonder what the dead can see.

Do they see all of you once they’re gone? The flaws, the lies you told yourself more than anyone else, the choices you regret even though you learned from them? Do they see you clearly, in a way you never quite managed to see yourself? Does death grant clarity?

Sometimes I imagine him being behind a glass, watching. Waiting. Wanting to reach out and say I know you have good intentions, but this is a bad idea. Wanting to steer me before I make another choice I’ll regret. And I, completely oblivious, make it anyway. I pretend we would have had a good laugh about it. He’d tell me not to take myself too seriously.

Even now, I still want to be good and honest and responsible for him. I still carry the quiet fear that if I fail badly enough, I might somehow tether him here. Which is irrational and exhausting.

I want him with me always and at the same time I don’t want him stuck on this side at all. If there is such a thing as passing on, I hope he made it. I hope he isn’t lingering because of unfinished business-or me. Or anyone else.

Energy can’t be destroyed, only transferred. So where did his go? Was it absorbed by the people who were with him when he died? Am I jealous because I wasn’t there? I know if how I feel now is broken, then witnessing it would have shattered me completely. Hearing him on the other side of the phone on a breathing machine was enough to make me want to vomit and die as well. That sound was more harrowing of a reality check than I have ever received and hope to never again hear. But still, the injustice burns. Cancer didn’t just take my dad. It took my belief that goodness offers any protection.

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We are all dying. Slowly.

From the moment we are born.

Everyone has a timeline. We just don’t get to see it in advance. Some are long and gentle. Some are short and brutal. None are fair.

After my daughter was born, my dad said something that lodged itself permanently in my chest. He said that once you have a child, you lose the luxury of dying. Someone depends on you now and your life is no longer your own. You have to care for yourself for them.

I think about that often. About whether, when he died, he felt he finally could. That maybe we had grown up enough. That maybe he regained that “luxury”. I don’t know if that thought comforts me or devastates me more.

He enjoyed the small things. The first warm spring morning with the sun on his face. Homemade French toast with powdered sugar. The smell of rain. Sitting on the truck tailgate with a root beer float. The first baseball game of the season.

We had an unspoken rule. We woke up early, before anyone else, and had coffee together. Sometimes he’d read the paper while I did puzzles. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we sat in comfortable silence.

When I moved away, we kept the ritual anyway through phone calls and texts. Every single morning. I got my coffee, how bout you? Yeah, I have mine. Grief has taught me that routines outlive bodies.

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I loved him. And death has taught me that love is never fully expressed in real time. You always realize later that you could have said it more. Stayed longer. Taken more pictures. Hugged harder and more often.

It will never be enough though.

People like to say they’re “sorry for your loss”, which is kind, and well-intentioned, and often feels like it’s said from another room. What felt more meaningful were the people who said, “this really sucks I’m so sorry”. The people who didn’t try to fix it or spiritualize it. They stood next to me instead of speaking at me. That’s the difference between sympathy and empathy. One acknowledges the pain. The other holds your hand and keeps you company in it.

Grief has taught me that, well, grief is grief. Losing someone ten years ago can hurt just as much as losing someone three years ago. Love does not decay on a schedule.

People like to say that bodies “give up”. I will never say that about his. For six years his body fought and adapted. It went into remission once, long enough for us to believe he had done the impossible. When the cancer came back, it was vengeful and relentless. Came for what it always wanted in the end.

He suffered silently and with a brave face. And he died as himself. Cancer didn’t take his humor, his identity, his autonomy, or even his hair. He died on his own terms.

But it did steal his life. And he didn’t deserve that.

Grief taught me that I am still standing next to the gurney.

That moment consumes everything and time collapses. I can see that ugly maroon carpet. The lights were dimmed in reverence. You may have very well been asleep. All of existence reduces to a cold forehead, skin that no longer holds warmth, a body that looks impossibly thin. I cannot step away from that gurney. Everyone else seems to move forward, but I am still there, hand hovering, knowing the coldness I will feel in my palm, but I have to touch your forehead, and it is the depths of that coldness that my mind refuses to understand even though my eyes already know.

Καληνύχτα, αγάπη μου.

Something broke inside me and never healed. I felt the walls rise in my soul, built brick by brick. Shut it down. Everything left on the outside of those walls died with him. Parts that other people liked. I’ve tried to retrieve those parts of myself, but they’re gone. So, I pretend. We all do. The mask works until you look too closely. I see photos, even ones he isn’t in, and I immediately calculate the month and year. Was he alive? How much time did he have left? How did we not sense it? Were we just living ordinary lives while he was quietly saying enough?

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I see new cancer treatments now and feel two things at once. Relief that maybe someone else will be spared this. And bitterness. Would it have helped? If time had shifted slightly, would he still be here?

But it always comes back to the same truth: It was unfair, it was cruel, it was cold, and it is done.

Sometimes I think about him so much it feels pathological. And then grief goes quiet and you think maybe you are breathing again. Then a favorite song of his comes on and you’re back in it; the “before death” years. I wonder now if he knows how often I still look for him in ordinary places. If death clarifies love the way life obscures it.

January is a hard month to love.

His birthday is in January.

He died nine days later.

The same month held both: celebration and collapse. Life and death.

After he died, I was walking alone in the woods. Snow everywhere. The kind of cold that convinces you nothing living could survive it. And there, pushing through the snow, was a single snowdrop.

It shouldn’t have been there. Everything around it was dormant or dead. I felt him then, not as a sign meant to convince me of anything, but as a recognition.

Later I learned that snowdrops are the birth flower for January. That they represent rebirth, not the triumphant kind but the stubborn kind. The kind that emerges when the conditions are wrong and winter insists nothing more can live.

What struck me most was the way it bent. Drooping and crooked. The way my dad used to sit. He had horrible posture in a chair, and his shoulders would roll forward like he was folded slightly in on himself. I used to call him my little crooked flower.

And there in front of me was a crooked flower showing that life persists anyways.

Life and death are still dancing.

January still comes.

Snow still falls.

And sometimes, against all odds, something crooked and alive pushes through.

And I am still here. Carrying him with me.

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Respect, apparently, is something we believe we’re owed simply for existing loudly.

I’ve worked and lived in places where the room was a mess of accents, ages, belief systems, and entirely different ideas of what “normal” looks like. Hotels, resorts, union workplaces, and international classrooms just to name a few. Places where Americans were the minority which, honestly, should be a required experience before we’re allowed strong opinions.

And somehow, in all of that, I got along with everybody.

Not because I was exceptionally nice.

Not because I avoided conflict.

But because I learned early that getting along is a skill, not a personality trait.

Before work, before hierarchy, titles, and uniforms there’s something even more fundamental: knowing when you are a guest.

Living in Hawaii will humble you if you’re paying attention. And if it doesn’t, that’s a problem. And no, it’s not all beach vibes and plumerias.

The locals carry deep pride in their land, and they should. Their history is lived. Their land was taken, reshaped, marketed, and sold back to the world in a version that often feels disconnected from its roots. So yes, outsiders are hard to trust, and they’ve earned that caution.

When you arrive somewhere like that, the worst thing you can do is assume your way is neutral, correct, or universal because it isn’t. You are entering someone else’s home, history, grief, pride, and memory. So please. Take off your shoes.

The best thing you can bring, whether you’re moving, traveling, or just entering a new space in your hometown, is basic respect and curiosity. Listening before speaking. Asking before asserting. Understanding that how you think, feel, or act may not be right especially if you don’t have all the facts.

And I’ll go ahead and say it, and it may be unpopular, but that idea runs directly against something deeply American. This doesn’t mean that I do not carry pride for my own country, but I carry the pride that I know we can be better in this as a whole. I just think we’ve lost the plot.

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American culture leans heavily toward individualism. We’re taught that the self comes first. That self-expression is sacred. That being seen is a right. That if we feel uncomfortable, unheard, or unvalidated, someone else must be doing something wrong.

Somewhere along the way, we also learned to weaponize the language of self-help. Everything is a “boundary”, every mild discomfort is “trauma”, every awkward interaction is someone “violating our peace”. Honestly, an insult to those who have actually experienced those things. We talk about protecting our energy like we’re carrying a crystal chalice through Sam’s Club on a Sunday at noon. If our energy is so fragile as that, then we are doing ourselves a dishonor and not even holding ourselves to a standard of accountability and assurance. And while boundaries are real and necessary, not every moment of friction is a threat to your nervous system. It’s a balance. Sometimes it’s just another human having a different day, tone, or way of existing. If every interaction requires emotional hazard pay, the problem may not be the world, it may be that we’ve confused self-awareness with self-absorption.

Contrast that with a place like Japan, where emphasis is on the whole. How your behavior affects the group. It doesn’t mean people are less complex or less emotional, it means they’ve learned to look outward before inward.

Neither system is perfect. But when extreme individualism goes unchecked, it turns into ego. And ego makes cooperation nearly impossible.

When everything becomes personal, everything becomes offensive. Every interaction turns into a test of respect rather than an opportunity for understanding.

That mindset doesn’t just damage societies, it can also destroy workplaces.

In my twenties, working at a hotel in Hawaii, I moved from intern to employee to management in various departments. Each role came with a different version of humility.

It’s mildly insulting to be young, capable, full of ideas, and completely unimpressive to everyone around you. You see inefficiencies and you want to help. You want people to listen. And instead, you’re met with indifference from people who have been doing this job for quite literally longer than you’ve been alive.

Some of them were three times my age. Some had worked at that hotel for forty years. Of course they didn’t trust me, I hadn’t earned it. I was called the tall haole for awhile because they’d seen so many come and go and it was probable I’d be another. My name didn’t matter. Though funny story, I didn’t get a name tag for the longest time because there was a miscommunication in HR so the closest name tag was a spare someone left in the drawer and the name was “Danilo” (my name is Dani so close enough) and I couldn’t understand why people would look at me funny until finally someone told me that was a Filipino man’s name. I still get called Danilo from time to time. Tourists thought I was ever-so-exotic asking where I was from until I’d say “Maryland” and then the funny looks would start again. I worked there for close to four years, and yes, I did finally get a name tag and made lifelong friends to the point that even both of my children were given Hawaiian middle names from their aunties and uncles. My spirit never left Hawaii, and both my children are now connected to the island too.

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So anyways, I stopped leading with my ideas and started leading with curiosity.

The most effective management tool I ever used wasn’t authority; it was a simple question: How would you do this?

Sometimes I already knew a faster or more efficient way. Sometimes knowing technology gave me an advantage they didn’t have. And yes, sometimes I pretended not to know the answer. Not because I lacked confidence, but because people are more open to change when they feel respected and heard, not corrected.

Once someone shows you their way, you can then say, “What happens if we try this way?” We. Now it’s collaboration and shared ownership. Now you’re not managing over them you’re working with them.

This was a union hotel, a very strong union. Technically, if someone’s shift ended they could leave immediately, unfinished work and all. But when people feel respected, when they felt their time, labor, and history mattered, they stayed because they felt responsibility to the team. And being part of a team sometimes means you have to put your own ego aside.

Respect is rarely loud. Someone who says they demand respect, hasn’t earned it. You shouldn’t have to say it if you have it but it also starts with you giving it. Someone has to be first.

There was an older gentleman who worked at the hotel for decades. He had come from a small village in China. He barely spoke to anyone. Clocked in, did his shift, clocked out. People had decided he was cold and distant.

We worked the early mornings together, I mean shift starting at 5 am early. Every morning, he would sing a song to himself in Mandarin as he set up for the day. And one day I asked him what it was.

It was a song his mother used to sing every morning. She was long gone, but he sang it anyway. It was a single question that created a bridge.

After that, we had a quiet understanding. He would sing, I’d ask if he wanted a cup of coffee since I was making one for myself. Learned we shared a potassium deficiency and I’d grab him a banana or a coconut water when I was also feeling faint. We looked out for each other.

Once I left to the mainland for a vacation and I ended up being gone for a month. When I returned, he pulled me into the tightest squeeze (to the shock of everyone around) and told me he’d been worried I quit without saying goodbye. I said I’d never. It was hard leaving him when I finally left the island.

To others, he was closed off. To me, he was someone who missed his family back in his village in China.

Curiosity rewrites the narrative.

Right now, we’re failing at that. We assume malicious intent where there is often only difference. We take unfamiliar behavior as disrespect instead of asking whether it simply comes from another context.

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In some cultures, people stand closer. Speak louder. They grab your arm to get your attention. They point and use their hands differently. In the U.S. we perceive this as invasive or rude because we assume our norms are the default.

In college, I took a psychology of cultures course that permanently rewired how I see people. Even something as basic as how close you stand to someone at a bus stop varies wildly on where you’re from. The example goes like this: If there were only two people standing at the bus stop (you being one of them), where would you stand in relation to the other person? If there are now three people, where would you stand? How about four? How about five? There is an unspoken understanding between people of the space you naturally give them to make everyone feel comfortable and this is different across cultures. When we forget that, the differences feel hostile. If we can remember, they soften.

This applies far beyond travel and workplaces. It can apply to families, friends, and communities (in person or online). Every room where people demand to be heard but refuse to listen.

Sometimes getting along means knowing when to speak and even harder, knowing when to be quiet. Not every thought needs an audience. Not every discomfort is an emergency. Sometimes, if you listen long enough, you realize you’re talking about the same thing you’re just using a different language.

We cannot demand respect while refusing to give it. It’s not even self-respect because you’re denying the very thing that makes us human. Our curiosity in our social interactions. And sometimes you have to go first.

And to be clear before anyone jumps at me: If someone is being abusive, harassing, or unsafe, you remove yourself and find help. This is not about tolerating harm. We are adults who can use our best judgements. This is about not turning every inconvenience and anyone who disagrees with you into a personal attack.

One of my favorite parts of working in hospitality was watching the children. Kids always have the most genuine reactions because they haven’t let all the other stuff get in their way yet. Babies and toddlers from every corner of the world would come in from all different backgrounds, and every single one of them would lock eyes on the fan above our heads. As all babies and toddlers do. A fan is the most enticing thing a baby could look at.

Different languages. Different cultures. Same wonder. We are far more alike than we pretend to be.

A little curiosity goes a long way. Listening to someone’s story. Asking before you go assuming. Remember when you enter a space that isn’t yours, including one you’ve been to many times in your own town, you arrive as a guest.

Getting along with everybody doesn’t mean liking everybody. It does mean, however, we recognize that we are all trying to live with some dignity intact.

So please, remove your shoes at the door.

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Before the planners, bullet journals, and pastel pens to mark the passage of time, the new year was a threshold; muddy, dark, and ceremonial. People didn’t promise to be better versions of themselves; they lit fires, made noise, and asked for protection. They tried, very practically, to survive another cycle of seasons.

The Babylonians are often credited with the first New Year’s “resolutions,” but theirs weren’t about self-optimization. During Akitu, their spring festival, they made vows to the gods to return what wasn’t theirs, pay debts, stay in spiritual favor. All in hopes they would not be smitten by a divine power that year.

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The Romans shifted the calendar to January and named it for Janus, the two-faced god of doorways - one face looking back, one looking forward. He was a god of in-between. The god of doors, gates, transitions. He ruled thresholds, endings, and shadows. January was never meant to be a clean slate. It was meant to be a pause in the doorway. To reflect where you’ve been in order to see where you’re headed.

Across cultures, the new year wasn’t quiet or aspirational, it was protective.

• In Scotland, Hogmanay meant fire and purging the old year with smoke and whiskey.

• In Japan, bells are rung 108 times to cleanse human desires and attachments, watch the first sunrise for luck, eating buckwheat noodles to signify long life.

• In parts of Eastern Europe, people dressed as animals or spirits to chase away bad luck.

• In China, red envelopes, loud noises, and sweeping rituals were made in defense of evil spirits.

• In the U.S., we kiss on the stroke of midnight. My mom would always make black eyed peas for wisdom and collard greens for health and wealth. Usually there are fireworks going off every other street.

• Growing up Greek, we would smash a pomegranate to symbolize fertility and prosperity, open the windows to let out the mischievous Christmas goblins (Kallikantzaroi), and we would make vasilopita, a sweet bread with a hidden coin inside. Whoever finds the coin has good luck for the year.

• My Danish friends jump on sofas and beds at midnight to “leap into the new year”.

Even the pagan wheel of the year didn’t treat January as a shiny reset. Winter was about endurance, reflection, storytelling, rest, and waiting. You didn’t rush growth; you tended the embers.

Modern resolutions have become aspirational punishments. We turned ritual into productivity. We decided the problem with our year wasn’t that it was hard, but that somehow, we weren’t trying hard enough. That something was wrong with us that needed fixing.

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What I’m Doing Instead

One of my intentions this year, because intention feels truer than resolution, is to touch more paper than screens. I want to read more.

I used to do a reading challenge every year. I took a break because life had been throwing one too many punches but this year, I am bringing it back. I like who I am when I read.

I’ve built a 12-month book challenge, ideally one category for each month, but of course you can read it in whatever order seems right to you. The point isn’t volume, but curiosity. These categories are designed to nudge me toward books I wouldn’t normally reach for, and because of that I have read some pretty incredible books.

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**Disclaimer: Purchasing from these links will give me a small commission, however these are books that I personally am reading and have already purchased or have purchased in the past**

The Categories

1. Originally in a different language

   

   1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

2. “Everyone” has read but you

   

   Quicksilver by Callie Hart

3. Chose because of its cover

   

   Pine by Francine Toon

4. By a favorite author

   

   Persuasion by Jane Austen

5. A loved one’s recommendation

   

   Red Rising by Pierce Brown

6. A book you’ve been meaning to read

   

   Atomic Habits by James Clear

7. Published this year

   

   Anatomy of an Alibi by Ashley Elston (Jan 2026)

8. Genre you don’t typically read

   

   Consider This by Chuck Palahniak

9. From your childhood

   

   The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

10. Currently on the bestseller list

    

    Alchemised by Sen Lin Yu

11. Recommended by someone

    

    At Home by Bill Bryson

12. Should have read in high school

    

    The Time Machine by H.G. Wells

I’ve already chosen my books for the year (plus I’ll list some I’ve read in the past I really enjoyed), but there’s always room for flexibility. You can always change your mind. Mood matters, life happens, rigid rules are how joy leaks out. I love to get books from the library, local bookshops, or even on Amazon they’ll have a used version of the book (sometimes for 1 whole CENT).

I think my favorite categories are the ones recommended by someone, whether that’s friend or family or even a random stranger. I feel like it says a lot about someone the first book that comes to mind that they want someone else to read. It’s a great conversation starter and when someone has read a book you’ve recommended or you’ve read one of theirs, the joy you feel is unexplainable. Finding out why they love that book or want to recommend it. I’ve recommended books in the past that maybe were not my favorite, however the conversations that stem from them or the questions raised are so fascinating.

What I’ve Loved Before

In past years, this kind of challenge introduced me to books I still think about, stories I never would’ve picked up if I’d stayed inside my comfort genre, and now I recommend them to others.

Classics

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper

The Lord of the Rings Trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Anthem by Ayn Rand

The Once and Future King by T.H. White

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

The First Man by Albert Camus

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust

East of Eden by John Steinbeck

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

The Stranger by Albert Camus

Anne of Green Gables: Complete Collection by L.M. Montgomery

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

“Modern” Fiction

Where’d You Go, Bernadette by Maria Semple

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Girls by Emma Cline

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

The Cabinet of Curiosities by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

In the Beginning Was the Sea by Tomas Gonzalez

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

Summers at Castle Auburn by Sharon Shinn

Arcadia Falls by Carol Goodman

Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland

One Thousand White Women by Jim Fergus

The Red Tent by Anita Diamant

ACOTAR Series by Sarah J. Maas

Throne of Glass Series by Sarah J. Maas **Assassin’s Blade is to be read 3rd not 1st**

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Life of Pi by Yann Martel

Non-Fiction

Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susanna Cahalan

Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer

Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

Wild by Cheryl Strayed

The Daughter of Auschwitz: A Memoir by Tova Friedman

An Invitation (not obligation)

If this sounds like something you want to do, join me!

You don’t need to read the same books I am. You don’t need to keep up perfectly. The goal is 12 for the year, how you read those 12 is completely up to you. We don’t even need to call it a book club if that makes you itchy.

Think of it as a shared ritual. It’s a loose circle. A quiet accountability pact made in the doorway of the year. We look where we’ve been to see where we’re headed.

I’ll post updates, reflections, and probably some unhinged thoughts about the books as I’m reading. If you want to read alongside me, tell me what category you’re starting with. If you want recommendations, I’ll share mine. If you fall behind, congratulations you’re human.

This isn’t about becoming a better version of yourself, though you may like who you are when you’re reading, like me. But it’s mainly about taking your rest, preferably with a good book.

Happy New Year!

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This is Polar Express & PJs.

It’s a tradition I started when our family was just the three of us. It was simple. We watched The Polar Express, read the book, and drank hot cocoa in our PJs.

When we moved to the country it felt like a bold decision to invite others in on our annual tradition. But we found it was a nice way to bring everyone together before the holidays to exchange gifts and holiday cheer in a completely no-fuss, low-stress evening.

December has a way of sneaking up on us and turning us into performers whether that’s Elf on the Shelf or riding Christmas trains or holiday photo shoots. The lists get longer and the calendar fills quickly. We want the stress of Christmas to end but not the holiday itself. But we don’t want joy to start feeling like another task to complete.

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I can still remember the green carpet with its strange pattern, there was a claw machine that I don’t think was ever used, and the same servers day in and day out. It didn’t matter what time we went, it seemed the servers never slept. The diner didn’t survive after needing massive repairs. I think about this more than I should. The diner had been a staple breakfast place for 48 years. Some places feel permanent when you’re inside them like they’ll always be there when you circle back.

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My order was always the same: cup of coffee, bowl of muesli with a honey packet on the side, and a half a papaya with a slice of lemon. I’m salivating just thinking of it. It was addicting. Sometimes we’d go in for dinner, and I’d still order it. I’d tried other mueslis thinking they were all created equal and I soon found they were not.

After I left Hawaii, I spent years trying to recreate it. You may be starting to think I’m crazy for becoming so obsessed with this, but it was that good. And it had a very distinct flavor. Every version missed something, it was never quite right.

Until this one ladies and gentlemen.

Ingredients:

• 3 cups quick oats

• 1 cup oat bran

• 1/2 cup ground flaxseed

• 1 cup chopped dried fruit (I like to use dates and cranberries)

• 2/3 cup chopped nuts (I like almonds and walnuts)

• 4 cups dairy or alternative (I love unsweetened vanilla almond milk)

• 1 tsp ground cinnamon

• apple juice to serve

• honey to serve

Instructions:

1. I use a very large mason jar, but you can use a bowl with a lid.

2. Add in oats, bran, flaxseed, dried fruit, nuts, and cinnamon. Put the lid on and then give it all a good shake so you can see that everything is distributed evenly.

3. Next slowly pour in your dairy or alternative of choice. Take a big spoon and mix it all up so that there are no dry pockets and everything is covered by the liquid.

4. Put the lid on and let it sit in the fridge overnight.

5. The next morning, scoop how much you would like out. Then add a splash of apple juice and stir until the mixture is to your desired consistency. Add more apple juice as needed. Drizzle with honey.

In Hawaii it was served cold so that’s how I like to eat it, but you could also warm it up.

You can change the combination of fruit and nuts to whatever you have, change the dairy, whatever you like it’s super versatile!

Even though it’s been a long time since I left Hawaii, it’s nice there are parts of my every day that echo that time of my life like I took something with me when I left.

I hope you’ll try it and let me know. It is such an easy, filling breakfast recipe that I always feel good after eating. And my kids love it so what else could be better?

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That little version of you, the one who thought glitter was a personality trait and believed hot chocolate could fix anything, that’s your core. And if you start tapping into that version of yourself again, that’s when you feel like life really is something.

This weekend, I got a reminder of that courtesy of my best friend coming to visit while my husband and daughter went off on their own adventure to Utah to hunt fossils (no I am not kidding). It was just us and my three-year-old son and the freedom to play pretend that adulthood wasn’t a thing. We executed a very serious mission: childhood wonder and Christmas magic. Nailed it.

The town next door has a Christmas festival every year and was named “closest to a Hallmark movie town” of the year, I think there was an award and everything. We took my son to see Santa; it’s the same guy every year who knows how to literally place a twinkle in his eye and laugh like he’s a bowlful of jelly. He sees the kids, gives them a huge hug and exclaims “You’ve gotten taller since last I saw you!” Then he turns to the parents and always says, “They’re getting more beautiful every year you’re doing great!” I honestly have never seen a baby cry in his arms, I think he may actually be the true Santa and you can fight me on it.

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We rode a horse-drawn sleigh like two grown women who absolutely believed they would be cast in the next holiday Hallmark. We were waiting for our Christmas tree farmer, soft eyes, a flannel that has never once seen a washing machine, a tragic backstory, and a barn that just needs a woman’s touch. We kept joking that any second now, he’d step out from behind a noble fir and tell us that only we could save the town’s annual Christmas jubilee from a ruthless corporate developer. We were ready. Aaaaand it didn’t happen.

After the sleigh ride we got hot cocoa and wandered through the Christmas market and spent the rest of the day talking and talking and talking. Somehow it continued well past our normal bedtimes of 7:30pm and the clock had struck midnight, we did not turn back into our old geriatric selves somehow. Sleep felt optional and nostalgia and gossip were our nutritional supplements. I woke up the next morning completely exhausted but also feeling more like myself than ever.

There were Christmas movies we loved as kids. Singing loudly to Christmas songs in the car. There was a Christmas cocktail in the cutest glasses you’ve ever seen. There were two fluffy dogs who had waited their entire lives for this level of snuggling. There was charcuterie, which let’s be honest, is an adult, upgraded, prestige version of Lunchables. We ate steaks and lemon parmesan salad and finished with spiked eggnog she’d brought with her direct from her local dairy farm.

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Maybe it was the comfort of being with someone who’s known me through every phase of life. Or maybe it was doing Christmas things with a kid who is starting to “get it” and seeing the enchanted world through his eyes. Or maybe it was the simple, quiet joy of driving around and looking at Christmas lights, watching little plumes of chimney smoke curl into the crisp air.

When my friend had pulled into my driveway, she said one of her favorite parts of the season is when you can see other people’s Christmas trees glowing through their windows. And it didn’t surprise me at all because earlier in the day, my son and I had made a whole game of it. We rated lights, pointing out favorites, and I said if you’re lucky you can see someone’s Christmas tree in their window, and we decided they would be the automatic winner. The prize was absolutely nothing except joy.

There’s something weirdly intimate about those glimpses, people tucked inside their homes, lit up by their own trees and traditions. It feels like getting to witness a secret softness in the middle of the biting cold. It made me think how life’s joy isn’t some grand, huge event but these tiny, little moments you get if you slow down to notice them. That it’s the little moments that make up the whole.

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My dad understood this better than anyone. I’ve never known a person who could find wonder in the smaller things. It went beyond living in the moment. It was making the mundane, normal everyday things holy. On a random afternoon we’d go for a drive and end up at the local ice cream shop, Artie’s (sold decades ago now for a pet grooming business, it makes me sad somehow), get root beer floats and sit on the back of his truck. Baseball opening day was sacred and we’d find ourselves outside throwing the ball around in our own mitts. After a heavy Spring downpour, we’d go outside just to breathe in that fresh smell of soil like it was the world’s most expensive cologne. After a snowstorm, the sky would be the brightest, most impossible clear blue, and he’d call it “Carolina Blue” and say the snow had scrubbed it clean. There is beauty in the simplicity of it all.

I think those moments imprinted on me those little reminders that joy is something you can notice. The things that delighted and remind you of when you were a kid still work now, even if you’re older, more tired, and allegedly responsible.

This weekend reminded me that the “core me” is still there. It’s alive, loud, easily bribed by hot chocolate, a good steak, and deeply impressed by a good sleigh ride (which by the way was really just a trailer hitched onto the horses, but we ignored that). Maybe the secret to feeling grounded is letting ourselves be a little ridiculous, a little tender, and a little more like the people we used to be.

But if the flannel-wearing Christmas tree farmer ever does show up, I’m not saying no. I’m just saying I better get top billing. I may need to get my husband to start wearing more flannel and grow a beard, it’s a thought.

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It had the energy of a childhood sleepover, I mean we even jumped up and down when she arrived from pure excitement, but we had much better snacks this go around. We sat on the couch in our comfiest sweats and pj pants, the tree glowing in the corner, ate our girl dinner, The Grinch playing in the background, yapped to our heart’s content, and drank this Christmas Aperol spritz. It was perfect.

Don’t forget to put it in the cutest cup you could possibly find. It’s a 10/10 experience. And it takes all of 15 seconds which is the best part.

Ingredients (for one drink):

• Ice

• Shot of Aperol

• splash of pomegranate juice (you could also do cranberry)

• Prosecco

• club soda or seltzer

Instructions:

1. Fill glass with ice, pour in shot of Aperol, a splash of the juice, fill almost to the top with Prosecco, and top it with your choice of club soda or seltzer. We used a cranberry lime Polar seltzer for this one.

2. Give a small stir.

Closer

This is best enjoyed:

• when you’ve kicked off your shoes hours earlier but you’ve genuinely forgotten where you put them

• with a plate of cheese, copious amounts of meat, and crackers

• for the stretch of the evening where everyone is warm, full, and borderline horizontal

There’s something special about a drink that matches the vibe of the moment especially when those moments are unrushed, cozy, and a little sparkly from the Christmas tree.

It’s a Christmas sleepover in a glass but fewer sugar crashes and way better conversations.

I’ve watched every movie version of A Christmas Carol at least a dozen times, The Muppets and the one with George C. Scott being my favorite (did mentioning The Muppets just make me lose my cred?? I mean the songs are amazing and it’s Michael Cain come on), I’ll also give the Jim Carrey fever dream one some kudos for delivering most of the lines from the book and trying to give a darker aesthetic.

Somewhere along the way though the story became more folklore. It’s been so overdone that the message has become festive white noise and just a staple of Christmas movies and plays, the real meaning buried under humbugs and “don’t be a stinge.” Don’t forget “God bless us, everyone” which my dad dutifully recited after every meal and throughout the entirety of the movies. It’s lost its meaning.

So this year, I did something mildly rebellious: I read the book for the first time (odd I hadn’t read it before seeing as how I love Dickens), pretending I knew nothing about it. Wiped my memory clean beforehand. Started with a clean slate.

It hit differently.

It’s sharper, darker, funnier, more political, and way more haunted than the cozy, cultural packaging we’ve put around it. It practically vibrates with righteous anger.

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1843 Britain: A Little Social Horror to Set the Mood

Dickens wrote the book in the fall of 1843, gloomy weather, industrial-era equivalent of late-stage capitalism, and a government that believed “charity” meant locking poor people in workhouses and hoping they died quietly. And it was finished in just six weeks.

It was a time of massive social change: industrialization had driven masses into cities, creating harsh living conditions for the working poor like overcrowded housing, child labor, widespread poverty.

Dickens had lived in the darker edges of society and as a child, his father went to debtors’ prison and Dickens himself worked in a grim shoe-blacking factory. He’d planned to write a political pamphlet- “An Appeal to the People of England on behalf of the Poor Man’s Child”- but decided instead that a story might hit harder and reach more hearts, and he was right.

This was a story of moral outrage dressed in candlelight and ghosts. Dickens didn’t write A Christmas Carol because he felt festive, he wrote it because he felt furious.

The Line that Should Punch Us in the Teeth

“But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,” faultered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.

“Business!” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

That line lands like slamming a ledger closed. And it’s the thesis of the entire book. I’ve always cringed a bit when that line isn’t delivered with the emphasis it deserves. It is powerful.

Dickens was reminding people, and now us, that if your “success” requires you to ignore the suffering, you’re not successful. You are spiritually bankrupt. And possibly next in line for a chain-rattling visitation. At the basic level, we are all human and who are we to ignore mankind when we are all of the same being?

What does it say about us when business is divorced from empathy? When profit matters more than people’s suffering?

I couldn’t help but see how commercialized A Christmas Carol has become. It has been done and redone. When December comes, even the school drama club is making a production of it. It feels that a story fighting for meaning in a commercialized world, even in the 1800s, that tells us that Christmas goes beyond money that it is about the time we spend with our loved ones, that joy and Christmas spirit can be found even in the most impoverished corners of the world, that there is so much to be thankful for beyond the materialism of our society, and the greatest good we can offer in our lifetime is to help our fellow man, has somehow been lost in all the reproductions.

It may be time to strip it down to its bare roots with fresh eyes and remember the reason it was written in the first place.

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The Story is a bit Pagan in actuality

What I love, and often gets lost, is how the story doesn’t necessarily lean religious. There’s no sermon just a spiritual, moral reckoning that is accessible to all. It draws more on older, pagan and Yule traditions than on Christian dogma. The shadows of past, present, and future, familial gatherings, charity, hospitality; these echo ancient winter rituals and communal human rites.

Scholars have pointed out that Dickens helped revitalize Christmas in Britain- family, domestic warmth, communal generosity- long before the garish commercialization we often accept now.

The Ghost of Christmas Present alone can be a representation of the battle between the Holly and Oak King of Yule.

When the second of Scrooge’s visitors arrive, he is described:

[…] But [the room] had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove, from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in Scrooge’s time, or Marley’s, or for may and many a winter season gone. Heaped up upon the floor, to forma a kind of throne, were turkeys geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in a shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door.

[…]

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me!”

Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple deep green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free: free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

In many pagan traditions, in the very basic level story and there is definitely more to it, the Holly King rules until December 21st (Yule and the Winter Solstice) when he is then defeated by the Oak King who brings back longer days until the Summer Solstice. These two kings fight for rule as the wheel of the year turns each season. It is not a malicious defeat but the symbolic renewal of the cycle.

The Holly King is depicted as a sort of woodsy Santa, with a wreath of holly on his head to signify endurance, protection, and hope, wearing great robes lined with fur, and a wassail bowl. The Holly King embodies the darker, colder months of introspection and death and the culmination of harvest before winter.

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The Oak King, who represents renewal, rebirth, and fertility, comes to take his throne. He is often depicted as the “Green Man” and made of foliage and surrounds himself with live greenery.

Is the Ghost of Christmas Present a combination of these two kings who then at the end of his time transforms into death itself? Was Dickens giving a nod to the gods of old? He seems to also separate the Spirits from traditional Christianity after Scrooge asks the Ghost why do they “deprive [the poor] of their means […] every seventh day?” and the Ghost of Christmas Present replies:

“There are some upon this earth of yours,” returned the Spirit, “who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-willed, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name; who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us.”

Paganism in Britain had ended in the Middle Ages and the entire of the population of Britain during the Industrial Age was Christian, however, many folk traditions were still held such as believing in spirits, superstitions, and Yule decorations such as holly, ivy, and wreaths to depict the wheel of the year. Many of these traditions were upheld by the poorer, lower-class communities.

Some other traditions that are pagan at the root

• The Yule Log: a literal log burned through the winter solstice to chase away darkness and evil entities. Today we’ve reduced it to a dessert that breaks in half if you don’t roll it fast enough out of the oven.

• Evergreen branches and wreaths: symbols of life that survives winter, paying homage to the Kings, and the wheel of the year.

• Wassailing: A ceremony involving singing, drinking, and blessing orchards so the apples wouldn’t wither. It’s a spiritual pub crawl that is now embodied in caroling, drinking punch, and a really catchy Christmas song.

• Mistletoe: Considered sacred, protective, and fertile (yes, in that way), it’s a nod to the Oak King. But now it’s hung as a kiss-at-your-own-risk hallway trap.

• General Feasting: The culmination of the autumn harvest is now put to good use, also now we need to bulk up so we can hibernate for winter.

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How the Story Got Lost in Consumerism

The modern holiday season could be summed up as:

BUY THIS THING! EAT THIS THING! SALES SALES SALES!

We’ve commercialized the season so badly that A Christmas Carol became, ironically, the very thing it was warning us about. It’s very on-brand for a society Marley would’ve absolutely haunted.

We need to be reminded that the holidays weren’t meant to be about:

• who bought the fanciest gift

• how many themed matching pajamas a family can own

• whether your exterior lights could guide a plane in for landing

The real purpose was, and is, this:

• To ask who we’ve become

• Figure out who we could be

• Remember that compassion is not optional

• To reset ourselves for the coming year with our loved ones

“[Christmas is] a kind, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.”

What do we actually do now?

1. Use the ghosts as a moral audit

   Past: What shaped you?

   Present: Who is being ignored and unseen right now? Who can we help?

   Future: What happens if nothing changes?

2. Let it cut through the noise

   The next time holiday consumerism starts eating your soul, remember: Dickens called it out 182 years ago. We’ve had warnings we just need to heed them. The information is there for you. Add it to your action item list.

3. Make generosity tangible, not performative.

   Give time, presence, attention, rest, support, and most of all anything you don’t need or could spare, give it to others. Like Marley said that is your business.

4. Bring that Yule energy back

   Light candles, hang greenery, cook something slow, bless your house if you feel like it. Not because tradition demands it, but because winter is meant to feel sacred, not scheduled. I promise you’ll feel better after doing this. If you need more ideas see my other post:

5. Read the book

   It’s short, it’s sharp, and witty. You could read it in a day, that’s what I did, it’s much shorter than other works by Dickson. Then you can also say in a snooty voice how you’re reading Charles Dickens. If you’re interested, I have this version that is closest to the original as possible with original artwork by John Leech. If you purchase from this link, I do receive a commission at no extra charge to you, and I already had this book long before this Substack was ever in the works so this is not an ad by any means. But I do love an original version.

Closing Thoughts from My Old House

Reading Dickens in a place that predates the book, feels like bridging two winters separated by nearly two centuries. When the wind moves through this house, you can hear where it’s been. There’s a draft that settles into the stairwell like an old spirit deciding to sit for a bit. The floors groan as if remembering the same footsteps from people who are long gone. The people who lived in this house before me would’ve understood the darkness of December intimately, maybe better than I do.

There’s a faint scent of pine from the greenery draped along the banisters and over the mantle, the wood stove creates a hug of warmth, and clove stuffed oranges sit in bowls wafting bursts of citrus spice. It feels like a conversation across time. Like the ghosts still linger, not to frighten but to remind.

It’s a call back to the simple, stubborn truth at the center of Dicken’s story:

And winter is our chance to remember it.

If you made it all the way to the end, thank you for reading! Please consider sharing this post and subscribing!

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Gingerbread has always been a staple for this month. It’s one of the traditions that never slipped through the cracks as I grew up. When I was a kid, we’d pack up the car the morning after Christmas and head towards Williamsburg. One year it snowed, the most beautiful quiet blanket of snow I have ever seen while more fat flakes were gently falling. The whole town looked like it had been dipped in some kind of antique snow globe. Lanterns were glowing, garlands strung up and hanging just so, the smell of wood smoke curled up against the cold air, and clove stuffed orange pomanders nestled in wooden bowls on every surface.

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That image has been burned into my memory. Every year that moment was brought up somehow. “Remember that one year it snowed in Williamsburg?” Even now, any time I make gingerbread, I can see the town hushed under snow, colonial style decorations, and the feeling like time had really stood still, trapped in 1699.

So yes, the recipe comes straight from colonial Williamsburg. And even though I’ve had to adapt them to gluten free, life really did throw in an unexpected plot twist, they still carry the same weight. The house fills with warm spices and becomes content in its quiet. Even the kids get serious in their cookie cutting duty.

Christmas doesn’t need to be flawless, but the season is better when its homemade.

Ingredients:

1 cup sugar

2 tsp ginger

1 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp salt

1 1/2 tsp baking soda

1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature

1/2 cup evaporated milk

1 cup molasses

4 cups gluten-free all-purpose baking flour (I like Bob’s Red Mill version with the blue label or click here for my recipe or if you are not a gluten-ite like me: use regular flour)

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 375F and line a couple baking sheets with parchment paper.

2. To a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, mix sugar, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, salt and baking soda.

3. Add the butter to the bowl and cream the butter with the sugar mixture for about 2 minutes until combined and fluffy.

4. Add the molasses and evaporated milk on very low speed as there may be slight splashing.

5. Add the flour one cup at a time, scraping the bowl as need. The dough should be stiff enough to handle without sticking to your hands. If it is still too sticky, add 1/2 cup of flour at a time until manageable.

6. Flour your surface and turn the dough out onto it. Roll the dough about 1/4 inch thick and stamp out your shapes. I like circles but I let the kids do the classic gingerbread men shapes.

7. Place onto baking sheets and bake for 10-12 minutes. Do not bake for too long or they will become hard, take them out when they are golden brown but you can still create a small dimple with your finger on top.

8. Let the cookies rest so they can firm up and transfer to a cooling rack. Enjoy! Keep stored in an airtight container on the counter

Closer

When the cookies are cooling and the house is settled in with their warm cookies and some eggnog, there’s a type of quiet that only shows up in winter. The lights are dim, the windows go black early, and the kitchen still carries the heat from the oven.

I’m always reminded of that snowy trip to Williamsburg, and I think I chase that feeling every year with my own kids. There was a comfortable stillness you only have when everything feels right in the moment and you’re with the people who make you feel content, like there is nowhere else you’d rather be.

Gingerbread doesn’t really solve anything, though I’m sure that could be debated, it doesn’t make the season easier or gentler. But, standing in a dimly, warm-lit kitchen, ice crystals forming on the windows, it’s very anchoring. Like there’s a hand on my shoulder reminding me even in the dark months, there are small, steady moments that make everything feel right and content. Traditions that have earned their place not because we’ve forced them.

Gingerbread has a way of making you feel like you’re finding warmth wherever you can, even when you’re elbow deep in molasses.

And if you need more holiday tradition ideas….

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But it’s also when the house feels alive in a different way: the early mornings smell like coffee and crisp air, the evenings flicker with candles and woodstove flames, and the in-between moments are their own kind of ritual.

So let’s settle in.

Welcome to the Hearth Edition! How was your week? Pull up a chair and tell meeeeeee. I’ll go first!

On this week’s episode of how did I hurt myself? I picked the skin around my nail like one with anxiety does and I got an infection and have to be on antibiotics three times a day 500 mg each dose for a week.

My friend says, “Doesn’t that hurt? How do you even do that?” Yes hello of course it does but I have a mental disorder WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME. I have the anxiety of a chihuahua that piddles on the floor as soon as anybody enters the house. Is it excitement, fear, love? Yes. All of the above.

Of course, as a mom, I’ll be the first to tell anyone else they need to go to the doctor but I won’t go until someone tells me Hey, that looks really bad and you could also get SEPSIS and you’re an idiot so I think you need to go like right now.

So I went to urgent care. The nurse gasped when she saw my finger and went THAT’S INFECTED. I said yes, it is. Thank you. Here’s $40. The doctor came in and asked if I wanted her to poke it with a needle and I said absolutely not. Go ahead and amputate it if you’re gonna bring something sharp near it she said okay, we’re going to try antibiotics and if it’s not better within the first 48 hours, we are going to have to poke it and I said okay, just please don’t do it right now because I’ll cry and my toddler is here. So, I got sent home with antibiotics and a stern look that said, “What the f*ck are you even doing”. I don’t know, just surviving and hoping things fix themselves honestly. Spoiler alert: A few days later I had to poke it. Lesson learned, for now, don’t pick your skin. Insert melting face emoji here.

How was your Thanksgiving?? I hope it was full of food, obviously, and lots of warmth and hugs and love and good gossip. Can you believe we are now on our way to Christmas? I mean I’m sure you are. If you’re like me you’ve been completely bombarded with emails from places you completely forgot you’ve ever given your email address to. But here they are telling you all about their sales sales sales!

It’s okay to drown out the noise, we still need our peace and quiet during this super busy time of year. Deep breaths. I know you’ve been working hard. This time of year is both exciting and exhausting. Both can be true at once and you’re doing a great job.

Let’s yap, I’ll tell you what I’m making this upcoming week!

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MEAL PLAN

I offer to you my weekly meal plan. Probably something that takes most of my time during the week to plan for the upcoming week. I take into consideration cost, time, sales, what I already have on hand, and the weather. If it’s raining and cold, you will bet I have some kind of stew on the list. But here they are to help you out! Cherry pick recipes to give yourself some ideas or use the whole thing and cook with me!

I love cooking food for my family and trying something new. Sometimes you’ll find something whacky on my list. It’s because I wanna try it. Or it’s something we’ve tried before, and it was damn good. I am Greek so you will find a lot of Mediterranean inspired meals. I can tell you right now, it’s getting colder and my favorite soup of all time is Avgolemeno so you’ll find it on the list many times this coming season, especially as viruses start circulating the school. I’m convinced it’s a cure-all and you can’t tell me otherwise.

How I organize my meal plan week by week is that I have meal prepped breakfasts, lunches, and sometimes a special healthy snack for ease and convenience. As for dinners, I always plan a recipe that will have leftovers so that I’m not cooking every single day. Listen I love cooking, but not every day I get tired too y’all. Sometimes at the end of the week, I over planned or under planned which is why sometimes I need an “extra” dinner or that dinner will move to the following week.

I wholesale shop for as many things as I can and ingredients usually go into multiple meals for efficiency. I try to remain as healthy as possible, but you know the joy of life, in my opinion, includes eating. And sometimes we don’t want to be gnawing on celery. So you’ll find a balance that works for my family. I am of the mindset that you eat your food as medicine or else you’ll eat your medicine as food. It sounds exhausting but once you get the hang of it there’s nothing to it. I view it more as a proactive way to guard against unnecessary doctor’s visits by having healthy guts which I was raised to believe was the “heart” of our bodies.

We are also a gluten free household since three of us are Celiac so alter as you need to.

Read more

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Part of this tradition comes from the holidays I grew up with. My dad was Greek Orthodox, my mom Methodist, so December in our house was a sort of spiritual potluck. Incense and hymnals. Midnight services and early morning ones. Kourambiethes waiting for their powdered sugar blanket and bags of donated clothing and toys waiting for the church pick up. And it just made sense.

Now that I’m older, I realized I’ve veered off in my own direction. Maybe a little more pagan if we’re being honest, not the broomstick kind (though I do have a ritual one waiting by the fireplace to sweep out the bad energy and tell me when someone is coming), but it’s more “nature is its own sacred being” kind. I decorate with pine I’ve gathered, dried oranges, branches the wind decided I could borrow, oranges stuffed with clove patterns. Our house leans more toward Yule than anything else: a quiet honoring of the dark season, the turning of the year, the deep exhale and reflection before things wake up again. Winter invites rest, reverence, candlelight, and the sense that magic isn’t something you buy it’s something you make.

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The realization didn’t happen overnight. It started years ago, in a consignment shop of all places. Tucked between yellowing cookbooks and dusty knick-knacks was a slim Little House on the Prairie collection, but just the Christmas and winter chapters. There was a chapter in there that resonated with me more than anything.

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On Christmas morning, Laura and Mary wake up to find in their stockings a tin cup of their very own and a heart shaped cake dusted with white sugar. And they were so excited and thrilled and fully believed magic existed in that moment. They held that cookie like it was a treasure and even talk about making the cookie last as long as possible, taking little nibbles here and there. At the time, white sugar was a luxury. To get it all the way out there on the prairie felt more magical than anything else they could have received.

Something was shining bright in the top of Laura’s stocking. She squealed and jumped out of bed. So did Mary, but Laura beat her to the fireplace. And the shining thing was a glittering new tin cup.

Mary had one exactly like it.

These new tin cups were their very own. Now they each had a cup to drink out of. Laura jumped up and down and shouted and laughed, but Mary stood still and looked with shining eyes at her own tin cup.

Then they plunged their hands into the stockings again. And they pulled out two long, long sticks of candy. It was peppermint candy, striped red and white. They looked and looked at the beautiful candy, and Laura licked her stick, just one lick. But Mary was not so greedy. She didn’t take even one lick of her stick.

Those stockings weren’t empty yet. Mary and Laura pulled out two small packages. They unwrapped them, and each found a little heart-shaped cake. Over their delicate brown tops was sprinkled white sugar. The sparkling grains lay like tiny drifts of snow.

The cakes were too pretty to eat. Mary and Laura just looked at them. But at last Laura turned hers over, and she nibbled a tiny nibble from underneath, where it wouldn’t show. And the inside of the little cake was white!

It had been made of pure white flour, and sweetened with white sugar.

Laura and Mary never would have looked in their stockings again. The cups and cakes and the candy were almost too much. They were too happy to speak. But Ma asked if they were sure the stockings were empty.

Then they put their hands down inside them, to make sure.

And in the very toe of each stocking was a shining bright, new penny!

They had never even thought of such a thing as having a penny. Think of having a whole penny for your very own. Think of having a cup and a cake and a stick of candy and a penny.

There never had been such a Christmas.

- Laura Ingalls Wilder, A Little House Christmas

Something about that lodged itself in me. The absolute awe they felt over something so small. The idea that magic doesn’t require excess, just intention.

I carry that with me every December. It’s why our advent calendar is built on shared moments rather than stuff. It’s why gifts in our house lean toward handmade or experiential rather than “Here’s a pile of objects that will be broken by January”. Unless, of course, it’s something they’ve been dreaming about. I’m not a monster. I don’t want to give the impression I don’t buy gifts for my kids. I do. It’s a balance of here’s something you’ve been asking for and also here’s some memories that will last longer than anything purchased from a store.

Food matters too. Not fancy, necessarily, though I do like to make a beef tenderloin with cognac cream sauce every year that does not make it onto the table ANY OTHER time because hello that shit is expensive. But it’s the kind of thing you only make during the cold months. Gingerbread in June feels wrong. In December though? It SHINES. The kitchen becomes its own altar: slow cooked stews, cookies, things rising and simmering and crackling. It’s not about the presentation, it’s about the ritual of it.

As far as music goes, I feel like you could probably guess by now I am not a pop girly. I love the classic songs sung by Bing Crosby, Dino, and Perry Como. But you know what I listen to the most of? Celtic Christmas. Appalachian Christmas. Victorian Christmas. ugh, LOVE. Have you ever heard a mountain or hammered dulcimer play Christmas music?? Enya singing O Come, Emmanuel? Tell me after listening to that you don’t believe in magic. CHILLS.

Everything becomes a little extra special when December hits.

I’ll list below what I have in our advent calendar so you can make one too. None of these things are expensive, most of them are free. But every one of them builds a memory my kids will carry long after the plastic toy is forgotten. Do I sometimes put a piece of leftover Halloween candy in a door? Absolutely. They get just as excited. There’s nothing wrong with that if you’re running out of ideas, honestly I can’t do this for every door anyways because did you know mice love chocolate. They will find it. And open up the calendar doors like a little kid with zero patience, eat it all, and shit everywhere. Nothing says good morning like questioning if a black speck is poop or not.

This year especially, people are watching their budgets. The economy is… well, the economy. But even in tight years, a season can be generous if we redefine what generosity looks like. Magic doesn’t require money. Sometimes it just requires intention and a willingness to look at the ordinary as if it’s holy.

Honestly, most of the best things I’ve given or received wouldn’t impress anyone on Instagram. But they meant something.

And meaning lasts.

Advent Calendar Ideas

(in the order I have mine currently, looking at weekends and what is actually feasible to do during the week so yours may look different. “Chocolate” means just that, I’m trying to use up Halloween candy hello)

1. Write a letter to Santa

2. Watch a Charlie Brown Christmas

3. Make a dried orange garland

4. Make hot chocolate

5. Cut out paper snowflakes

6. See Santa (we go to a local Christmas festival in town for this and they have sleigh rides and hot cocoa and a little market you can support buying local)

   

7. Put together toys & clothes to donate (my kids have to do this, not me. They go through their rooms and bag the clothes that don’t fit anymore and go through their toys one by one and make the conscious decision to give it to someone else)

8. Winter Scavenger Hunt (you can easily find and print one off online, makes them go outside and look at nature)

9. Make an ugly sweater garland (cut out “sweaters” and let them decorate with pom poms and sequins and crayons to make it the ugliest possible, string it together)

10. Chocolate

11. Make gingerbread (I’ll post a recipe card about this soon because I’m telling you I have the best recipe and I have referrals from people that can back me up)

12. Christmas light drive through, we save money by piling the car with kids since they usually charge by car not person (or you can also just drive around and look for people’s Christmas lights and decorations then choose your favorite)

13. Make Christmas cookies of choice

14. Watch the Nutcracker (we like George Balanchine’s version)

15. Chocolate

16. Draw your best Christmas angel

17. Make a popcorn garland (string it on your tree, or we like to hang it in the trees outside for the birds since we tried hanging it on our Christmas tree only to find that, you guessed it, mice were CLIMBING our tree and eating the popcorn. We couldn’t figure out for the longest time why the garland was looking scarcer every morning)

18. Bake cookies for the neighbors

19. Make candied oranges

20. Polar Express & PJs night

21. Chocolate

22. Make kouthambiethes (a Greek Christmas and wedding cookie, one of my FAVES)

    

23. Watch a Christmas classic

24. Read the Night Before Christmas & leave cookies out for Santa

25. Christmas!! Open presents DUH

The Experience, Budget-Friendly, Anti-Junk Gift Guide

(Rooted in nature, intention, and a little humor because we’re all tired)

1. A “Let’s Spend the Day How You Want” voucher

   No agenda. Just them. And their decisions. And you be quiet about it.

2. A Jar of Tea & Honey + a short letter about when you think they should drink it

   “After a bad day” “On the first snow” “You didn’t look at your bank account before that purchase”. Emotional support in a mug.

3. A bundle of foraged decor

   Pine, berries, twigs. Nature does the styling for you. Put it in beautiful secondhand vase. Make sure it does not have poop on it. The twigs or the vase.

4. A personalized winter playlist

   A mix of cozy, moody, nostalgic, and “I know this song will make you laugh because your taste is mildly questionable”. Perfect.

5. A handmade ornament

   Even if it’s ugly. Especially if it’s ugly.

6. A simple coupon “I will help you with that one thing you keep avoiding”

   Closets. Paper piles. Returns. An errand date. These are true acts of love.

7. A winter walk with a thermos of cocoa or mulled something

   Costs next to nothing. Somehow ends up being the memory people bring up years later. And it’s definitely good for your health. I don’t need to cite sources.

8. Mulled something

   Do you know how easy it is to mull something. And it is amazing. Though one year I made cookies and a bottle of mulled wine for each of my neighbors on the hill and one didn’t drink it and I didn’t know why until she told me she thought I made “MOLD WINE” for her…yeah no. It’s not that aged.

9. Recipes

   Handwritten or printed or bound. There is something special about recipes. Even better when they’ve been passed down. Or maybe it was something the person mentioned they liked that you made. Give it to them. We don’t gatekeep recipes. Share the warmth.

10. Rest Day Kit

    Candle. Cozy wool socks. Tea. Something stronger. A note that says I will watch your kids for you. Send em on over red rover.

11. Homemade canned goods

    Every year I make sweet tea peaches in a honey, earl-grey syrup, and they are well-loved and asked for. Remember the simplest thing can be a gift. It’s something that is intentional that says I thought you might like this.

12. Framed Pictures

    My mom has Alzheimer’s so pictures have even greater importance. Taking some well-loved pictures gathered from family members and past vacations and framing them could mean more than you know. When I was about 10 I found a box of old black and white photos in a shoebox in my mom’s closet from her childhood. I made them into a scrapbook that she currently has with her in her room. She cries when she sees it. It’s a little tug that says “Oh, I remember that!”

You can do it, anything can be a tradition. Say no to doing things that make you stressed out, including overspending on gifts. You are only peer pressuring yourself. And you don’t have to.

That’s the heart of our season. Not the big gifts, not the stress, not the Pinterest-worthy whatever. Just the moments we make, the quiet we carve out, the little rituals that remind us we’re human in a world that constantly tries to rush us past ourselves.

Biscuits, Boots, & Bullshit is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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It’s the herbs. And the cheese. You literally cannot go wrong. Put some bacon on the side and fresh fruit and it looks like a culinary hug.

Why this works for the holidays…

Because the holidays are chaos and you deserve one thing that doesn’t need babysitting. They’re elevated without showing off.

And when someone inevitably asks, “What’s that smell??” You can calmly say, “Breakfast. Sit down.”

Ingredients:

1 clove garlic, minced

1 tsp fresh thyme leaves, minced**

1 tsp fresh oregano leaves, minced**

1 1/2 tsp fresh parsley, minced**

2 tbsp parmesan, grated**

12 large eggs

1/4 cup heavy cream

2 tbsp unsalted butter

Salt & Fresh Cracked Pepper

Gluten free toasted Baguette (my favorite is Against the Grain)

**Experiment with different herbs and cheeses, smoked gouda is another favorite

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 400 F, and grease a cast iron skillet or casserole dish

2. Combine garlic, herbs, and cheese and set aside

3. Into the skillet, pour the cream and add the butter. Crack the eggs carefully into the dish (to keep the yolks from breaking) spaced around the dish. Sprinkle with the herb and cheese mixture and sprinkle with salt and pepper to your taste preferences.

4. Place the skillet into the oven and let bake about 5-10 minutes until the whites are cooked and the yolks are just set (time depends on how runny you like your eggs).

5. Be careful, eggs will continue to cook after you take them out. If you’d like it a little browner on top, turn on the broiler and watch like a hawk to make sure it doesn’t burn!

6. Serve with fruit, bacon, toasted baguette, and anything else!

Closer

There’s something grounding about a breakfast you can build in the quiet. You don’t need to “scramble” to bring it together (do you see what I did there).

If this finds its way onto your table, please post a picture and let me know how it went! But cozy doesn’t need to wait for a holiday, make it on a random Tuesday and it’s just as good.

A stretch of sunlight across the barn floor, the one line I read in a book that hit me in my soul, the moment my daughter unknowingly said something so profound that reached across realms to a dead loved one and stopped me cold.

That is what this space is going to hold, the ordinary things that don’t look like much from the outside but carry more weight than they should. The meals that feed the week, the books and movies and music that keep me from spiraling, the tiny joys tucked into the cracks of everyday living. All the small pieces of a life that I’m still building, fumbling I may add, and still trying to slow down long enough to appreciate.

If that’s something you need too, pull up a chair with me and welcome to the first issue of The Hearth Edition.

The fire’s on.

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MEAL PLAN

I offer to you my weekly meal plan. Probably something that takes most of my time during the week to plan for the upcoming week. I take into consideration cost, time, sales, what I already have on hand, and the weather. If it’s raining and cold, you will bet I have some kind of stew on the list. But here they are to help you out! Cherry pick recipes to give yourself some ideas or use the whole thing and cook with me!

I love cooking food for my family and trying something new. Sometimes you’ll find something whacky on my list. It’s because I wanna try it. Or it’s something we’ve tried before, and it was damn good. I am Greek so you will find a lot of Mediterranean inspired meals. I can tell you right now, it’s getting colder and my favorite soup of all time is Avgolemeno so you’ll find it on the list many times this coming season, especially as viruses start circulating the school. I’m convinced it’s a cure-all and you can’t tell me otherwise.

How I organize my meal plan week by week is that I have meal prepped breakfasts, lunches, and sometimes a special healthy snack for ease and convenience. As for dinners, I always plan a recipe that will have leftovers so that I’m not cooking every single day. Listen I love cooking, but not every day I get tired too y’all. Sometimes at the end of the week, I over planned or under planned which is why sometimes I need an “extra” dinner or that dinner will move to the following week.

I wholesale shop for as many things as I can and ingredients usually go into multiple meals for efficiency. I try to remain as healthy as possible, but you know the joy of life, in my opinion, includes eating. And sometimes we don’t want to be gnawing on celery. So you’ll find a balance that works for my family. I am of the mindset that you eat your food as medicine or else you’ll eat your medicine as food. It sounds exhausting but once you get the hang of it there’s nothing to it. I view it more as a proactive way to guard against unnecessary doctor’s visits by having healthy guts which I was raised to believe was the “heart” of our bodies.

We are also a gluten free household since three of us are Celiac so alter as you need to.

Read more

And I thought everyone else did it too.

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The last time I brought traditional housewarming gifts, I showed up with a small basket, so they may know security, and in it was full of these little gifts and blessings. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. Just the way I was taught.

My friend looked at me like I had arrived straight out of folklore. She was so excited she had me tell her what each one meant again. She was startled that someone would show up with something old-world and intentional in a world that’s mostly Amazon gifts and small talk.

Standing there in her beautiful, half unpacked kitchen, I realized how foreign these gestures have become. How rare it is to witness someone walking into your life with something blessed, something that carries meaning beyond, “I thought you might like this”. In a life where everything is fast and surface level, anything rooted in tradition feels like magic.

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These gifts are about connection. They’re about acknowledging that a new home isn’t just a place to move into, it’s a place where a whole lifetime is about to unfold, at least that is what you’re wishing for them. Arguments, makeups, late-night worries, laughter in the kitchen, anniversaries, holidays, grief, joy, and all the tiny moments in between. Tradition says, Let me place something here, at the beginning, that wishes you well through all of that.

When my friend told me she’d never seen anyone do this before, I felt this mix of surprise, delight, and sadness-like something precious had slipped through the cracks without anyone noticing it but I was glad to introduce her and anyone else to it. I realized I’d been assuming the world still carried these little rituals with it, the same way I did. We’ve traded intentionality for convenience, without really meaning to.

In a time when everyone is tired and moving at the speed of survival, small acts of meaning feel like healing. They slow everything down. They remind us, we’re not just exchanging pleasantries, we’re quietly stepping into each other’s lives.

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I think it’s time we bring these rituals back. Not to be quaint or aesthetic or old-fashioned, but because they anchor us in human connection. They turn a simple house tour into a moment of blessing.

None of it requires big money or big gestures. It’s less about the object and more about the intention you tuck inside it. I still believe homes deserve to be blessed, gently and quietly, especially if they’ve been lived in before. They’ve been through a lot and they deserve our respect and kindness, not manhandled. When you start viewing your home like a living, breathing thing that is part of the family not just something you live in, you start to treat her a bit differently.

That’s the real reason these old traditions matter, they soften the edges of modern life. They remind us to show up with warmth, not words. We pause in someone’s doorway and offer a little hope for the life they’re about to build inside those walls.

Next time someone you love moves into a new or different place, bring them something with meaning. Bring them blessings. We might find ourselves feeling a bit more connected and a bit more human again.

At the end of the day, we all want a place full of warmth and people who know how to offer it.

Traditional Gifts

Bread: May you never know hunger

Salt: For protection

Honey: May your home have all the sweetness of life

Wine/Champagne: May there always be something to celebrate

Candle: May your light never go out

Wood: May you always have strength and stability

Olive Oil: May you and your family be blessed with good health

Plant: May your home be full of life

Basket: May you always feel safe and secure

I would also like to mention, starting Friday, I will be rolling out The Hearth Edition. This will be a weekly issue containing my meal plans with recipes I’ll be cooking for the following week (something that takes me hours to organize but may give you inspiration if you’re stuck on what to make), books I’m reading, things I’m watching and listening to, and little joys I’ve reflected from the week that I would love to discuss with you and open intentional conversations. I want to know your opinions.

Keep an eye out and make sure to subscribe so you don’t miss it!

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Stuffed acorn squash fits right into that rhythm. It’s one of those recipes that feels like it belongs in a house where muddy boots sit by the door and the porch light is always a little dimmed. It’s warm, earthy, seasonal food that makes you feel taken care of after a long day.

When the nights get colder, this is the kind of dinner that makes sense.

The nice thing about it too, you can alternatively peel and cube the squash, mix it all up together, bake it, and serve it as a side dish on Thanksgiving without any added fuss. It adds color, warmth, and a bit of that seasonal comfort.

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The Recipe

2 large acorn squash, halved longways, seeded

2 tbsp butter, melted

1 clove of garlic, crushed

1/2 tsp ground sage, divided

1 lb loose sausage

1/2 onion, minced

1 celery rib, minced

4 oz baby bella mushrooms, minced

1 apple, peeled, cored, minced

1 cup gluten-free panko (or regular)

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

1 egg, beaten

salt & pepper to taste

The Method

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees

2. Combine the melted butter, garlic, and 1/4 tsp ground sage

3. Brush the inside of each squash with the butter mixture. Sprinkle some salt and pepper on the squash. Place the squash cut side up on a parchment lined baking sheet and pop into the oven for 1 hour.

4. In a large skillet, brown the sausage. Once browned, remove it from the pan and place on a paper towel lined plate and set aside. To the skillet, add the onions, celery, and mushrooms.

5. Once softened, add the apples.

6. Return the sausage to the skillet and add the remaining 1/4 tsp sage, some salt and pepper. Stir in the panko and parmesan. Then add in the beaten egg and combine.

7. Divide the stuffing evenly among the squash halves, if there is extra in the skillet you can place the entire thing into the oven if it is oven safe. Return the squash to the oven and bake an additional 20 minutes.

If you’re making this for Thanksgiving, peel and dice the squash, toss it with the butter, garlic and sage, and roast it. Afterwards, combine it with the stuffing and bake the whole thing together in a pan.

And if the holiday feels heavier than usual, maybe too loud, maybe too busy, this is one of those dishes that brings the room back down a little, even just for a bit.

Sometimes that’s enough.

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This isn’t the trendy, protein-packed, overnight-soaked kind of oatmeal that involves chia seeds and existential dread. This is the kind your mom or grandma might’ve made when the weather turned cold. It’s the kind that makes you want to wrap a blanket around your shoulders and stay home forever. Perfect for a holiday morning or the day after when you’re trying to regain your reality on life.

This recipe’s been in my life as long as I can remember. My dad used to make it when I was a kid, always the same way, always in the same old pan. Sometimes he’d add walnuts because he was a sucker for anything with walnuts or pecans in it. It was just him, a wooden spoon, and the confidence that comes from cooking something a hundred times over. He’d pull it from the oven, golden and steaming, and it felt like the whole house slowed down to breathe in the cinnamon and vanilla for a minute.

Now I make it in my own kitchen, double batched every time, and it always feels like home. It’s the kind of comfort that sticks to your ribs and settles in. It’s the same smell and the same recipe, just a different chapter.

There’s comfort in recipes that come from someone you love. Cooking cozy recipes for the family was definitely one of his quiet ways of caring (I wonder where I got it from).

There’s a rhythm to baking something simple. Stirring. Pouring. Waiting. It’s grounding in a way scrolling never is. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to it because sometimes we need reminders that cozy isn’t about aesthetics.

Ingredients:

• 3/4 cup canola oil

• 4 eggs, beaten

• 1 cup brown sugar

• 1 cup white sugar

• 4 tsp baking powder

• 2 tsp salt

• 2 tsp cinnamon

• 1 tbsp vanilla

• 5 cups gluten-free quick oats

• 1 1/2 cups milk

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease a 9x13” baking dish

2. Whisk together the oil, eggs, and both sugars.

3. Add the remaining ingredients, mix well.

4. Pour into the dish and bake for 35-40 minutes until golden

5. Let rest for 10 minutes, then serve warm with a splash of milk and some fruit of choice.

There’s a line between cozy and chaos. Most days, I’m walking that line barefoot with my 4th cup of coffee in one hand and a mental to do list in the other. Baked oatmeal helps find that balance. It’s a reminder that cozy isn’t something you find, you have to make it. This one is made out of love disguised as breakfast.

So here’s to slow mornings, chipped dishes, 4th and 5th cups of coffee, and recipes that outlive the people who taught us to love them.