It’s been a while since I’ve written here - like really shared.. I still toss little snippets onto Facebook, but this space gives me room to stretch out, to add a little depth and texture to the things rolling around in my head. It’s why instead of letting this blog die, I just gave it a new name when I let my domain get canceled….tee hee. Ooops. Enjoy some snapshots of Christmas pasts before I dive into the current holiday feels…
It’s hard to believe that it’s December already. I think the holidays hit differently when your life finally steadies itself. Not in a dramatic “life flipped upside down” way, but in that quiet, grown-up way where you suddenly start choosing things because you want them - not because it’s tradition, not because it’s expected, not because it keeps the peace, but simply because it’s what feels right.
This year, I found myself thinking about the pink Christmas tree. My little cotton-candy riot of color that’s been my holiday signature for years now. And I honestly toyed with putting it up for weeks last month. But then… I decided I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t going to put up a tree at all.
I looked over at my plants. the ones I brought home this summer on a whim, fully expecting them to be seasonal residents at best. And there they were, thriving. Big leaves, bright green, reaching for the light like they had every intention of sticking around. Thriving because I finally am.
The trouble is, the Christmas tree only fits in one place in this little old farmhouse. If you’ve ever been inside, you know exactly what I mean. This house was built in 1905 and has the sweetest little circle layout: you walk in the front door into the living room, pass through the kitchen, then right into my sewing room/closet situation, then another right into the bathroom, then through my bedroom, and a right back into the living room. No wasted space. Just a simple loop, made for someone who doesn’t mind walking in circles every day.
And in that entire loop, there is exactly one spot for the tree.
Which means all my plants would have to find a new spot outside of the space they’ve been growing and thriving.
So I sat with that for a minute.
And decided this Christmas was making way for new things.
Not out of sadness. Not out of avoidance.
Out of alignment.
Out of the simple truth that my little forest of thriving indoor plants brings me more joy than anything pink, sparkly, or tinsel-ly could right now.
It also dawned on me that I have never actually done Christmas my way. Not once.
Sure, the pink tree was my idea, but everything else? The timing, the style, the expectations, the shoulds and shouldn’ts … they were always shaped by someone else’s preferences, someone else’s schedule, someone else’s idea of a “real” holiday.
The longest-lived Fraser fir in North America was probably in my living room in years past, pre-pink tree. But the real-tree tradition wasn’t really mine. I just rolled with it. We always had fake trees growing up. It’s Georgia. Real trees that grow here aren’t that pretty.
The fake pink tree came into our lives because of Eddie, our beloved old Golden Retriever I inherited when my dad died. Bless sweet ol’ Eddie. he never could grasp why a real tree inside the house wasn’t meant to pee on. So we switched to fake, and that solved that issue. But even then, how it all happened still wasn’t really my vibe.
Last year was the first Christmas I ever spent living alone. I put up the pink tree, turned off all the lights, and let that soft glow fill the whole room. It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It felt like a rite of passage. A gentle reclaiming.
This year is so much different and feels less about reclaiming and more about refining.
And I feel good about it.
It turns out that choosing not to decorate a certain way can be just as celebratory as going all out. There’s something freeing about letting the holiday shape itself around your life instead of shaping your life around the holiday.
I’ll still decorate, just differently. A wreath here. A candle there. A few twinkle lights to honor the season. But this time, I’m decorating without feeling obligation.
And in a strange, lovely way, skipping the tree feels like a quiet declaration.
I am allowed to let traditions evolve as I do.
I am allowed to choose what feels good now, not what felt good then.
I am allowed to grow and let the holidays grow with me.
No tree this year.
Just warmth, light, plants, and peace.
Which, honestly, might be what I was needing all along.
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