Winter Solstice, Before the World Wakes

The winter solstice always arrives quietly here—no fanfare, just the softest turning of the year. It’s the longest night, yes, but also a promise: from this moment on, the light returns. I wake before anyone else, pull on a robe, and pad into the kitchen while the house still holds its breath. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, white twinkle lights steady and patient, casting a gentle shimmer across the counters. This is my favorite hour—the in-between—when the world hasn’t asked anything of me yet.

The coffee is warm. The starter stirs. And I begin.

Onion Soup Sourdough at Dawn

There’s something grounding about baking bread while it’s still dark outside. This morning it’s onion-soup–flavored sourdough—deep, savory, and unapologetically cozy. As the dough rises, the kitchen fills with the quiet perfume of caramelized onions and warm flour. Hands dusted, bowls scraped clean, I work by the glow of the tree lights and the oven lamp, listening to nothing but the rhythm of my own breath oh and the Polar Express movie quietly playing in the background.

Bread at dawn feels like an offering—to the day ahead, to the people who will wake hungry and sleepy, to the season itself. The loaf goes into the oven as the sky lightens just a shade, and for a moment it feels like time is standing still.

Sourdough Snickerdoodles & Cinnamon Sugar Snow

Once the bread is underway, it’s time for something sweet. Sourdough snickerdoodles—soft, crackled, and rolled generously in cinnamon sugar—are winter in cookie form. The dough balls line up on the tray like little promises, each one dusted as if with the first snowfall.

There’s joy in the simplicity of it: butter creamed smooth, eggs cracked quietly, vanilla measured with care. The starter lends a subtle tang that balances the sweetness just right. As the cookies bake, the house warms and the scent of cinnamon drifts upstairs, a gentle invitation for sleepy feet to find their way to the kitchen.

The Longest Night, the Returning Light

By the time the oven door opens, the day has officially turned. The solstice reminds me that even in the deepest dark, light is already on its way back. Bread continues to bake. Cookies puff and settle. The tree lights still glow, but now they share the room with morning.

This is how I mark the season—not with grand plans, but with quiet work and warm food. With hands busy and heart full. With the understanding that these small rituals—baking before dawn, savoring silence, letting the light return—are the truest kind of celebration.

Happy winter solstice. May your kitchen be warm, your mornings gentle, and your days grow brighter from here. 

Six Days of School, Seven Days of Work, and the slow March Toward Christmas

Some weeks feel like they’re stitched together with nothing but grit, coffee, and whatever is left in the bottom of the laundry basket—and friends, this was one of those weeks.

The teenage boys trudged through school and afterschool obligations, their backpacks somehow heavier, their appetites somehow doubled, and their energy… well, questionable at best. I swear teenage boys live on equal parts humor, chaos, and carbs. Every morning felt like a mini-marathon of reminders:

“Did you charge your Chromebook?”

“Where’s your water bottle?”

“No, seriously, where is it? Didn’t we just buy that last week?”

By the time the house finally exhaled into quiet, I was already headed out the door to address the next  seven days of my own work—the kind that doesn’t politely stop just because my brain wants to. Somehow, we push through, day after day, fueled by purpose and the promise of  returning home and bedtime.

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The Christmas Countdown Begins

Meanwhile, Christmas is peeking around the corner like a mischievous elf whispering, “Have you started yet? You haven’t, have you?”

The bins of ornaments  have made their annual migration from the attic, shedding pine needles from years past as if to shame me into decorating faster. There’s a certain magic in stringing lights when the world outside feels heavy—tiny reminders that joy doesn’t need to shout; sometimes it just twinkles softly.

Between work emails and school drop-offs, I’ve been:

• Making lists (and rewriting them when I lose them)

• Hiding online orders from the boys (they notice everything and well sometimes snoop)

• Attempting to plan meals (why does December make everyone hungrier?)

• And lighting enough candles to make the house smell like a cross between a forest and a bakery

Though I have minimally decorated, the house still feels chaotic and I look forward to the early mornings when our dog Aspen wakes me to do her morning business and eat, so that I can drink a cup of coffee in the quiet with the Christmas tree glowing in our living room. It is a softer and quiet time that helps balance the chaos out.

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Appointments, Waiting Rooms, and the Road to Surgery

This season isn’t just about Christmas, though. It’s about holding things together as my husband moves toward his next hip surgery. The calendar is packed tighter than a stocking on Christmas Eve with appointments, check-ups, pre-op paperwork, and the kind of waiting-room worries only a spouse understands.

There’s a unique emotional juggling act in being both the one who waits and the one who keeps the household gears turning. The boys still need rides, reminders and approvals. Homework still needs checking. Work still demands what it demands. Dinner still needs to happen (even if dinner is cereal… sprinkled with grace).

And through it all, we’re preparing—day by day—for surgery No. 2.

It’s amazing how strength grows in the small moments:
In the car ride to an appointment.
In shared glances that say “We’ll get through this.”
In the quiet resilience of doing the next right thing.

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Daily Obligations, Wrapped in Real Life

Some nights, I collapse into bed wondering how so many tasks can fit into one family’s week. And then the morning comes, and somehow we do it all again:

• The lunches

• The laundry

• The logistics

• The mental load that could fill Santa’s sleigh

But buried in the chaos are flickers of beauty—a laugh from the boys, a warm cup of coffee, the glow of the Christmas tree, the feeling of being exactly where I’m meant to be, even when the road feels long.

This season might not be tidy. It might not be calm. But it’s ours.
And right now, that’s more than enough.

The Night Before 49: A Mom's Musings on Growing Up, Growing Older, and Growing Back Into Myself

On the eve of my 49th birthday, I find myself doing what moms do best at the quiet end of a long day—reflecting. Not on the to-do list or the laundry or the fact that I’m definitely going to forget to take the chicken out of the freezer again tomorrow—but on life. On the years that somehow slipped by between jelly shoes and joint supplements, between roller-rinks and carpools, between who I was and who I’ve become.

Growing up in the 80s and 90s felt like something out of a nostalgic movie now. Birthday parties were big, loud, deliciously chaotic potluck affairs. Kids from all over the block—sometimes kids we barely knew—showed up with wrapped gifts, crooked homemade cards, and jelly-stained smiles. No curated Pinterest themes, no party favors that looked like wedding gifts. Just sheet cake, a boom box, laughter that carried down the street, and the absolute thrill of being another year older.

Every year, like clockwork, my friend Molly handed me an ornament. Simple, sweet, and chosen with way more heart than the price tag suggested. I didn’t know then how much those ornaments would come to mean—the tiny milestones of our friendship, tucked safely between the branches of each December.  

And somehow, through moves, marriage, kids, chaos, and the occasional questionable hairstyle, those friendships stuck. Maybe that’s the magic of growing up when we did: our bonds weren’t built on curated feeds or text threads, but on scraped knees, shared bikes, sleepovers, and long afternoons when time felt endless. The kind of friendships that feel like home, even when everything else is shifting.

Now, as I look toward tomorrow's
birthday (49) and toward 50—just one year away—I feel this full-circle moment settling in. I appreciate the little things again: morning coffee in silence, the sound of my kids’ laughter drifting from another room, the way old friends still know exactly who I am, even when I forget a little.

My kids are older now. They need me in different ways—or sometimes, not at all. There’s space again. Space to breathe. Space to wonder who I am outside of “Mom.” Space to rediscover the version of myself that loved to move, to run, to feel strong. I want my fitness back, not because someone says I should, but because I miss the woman who felt connected to her own body. I want to feel like me again—not the 25-year-old version or the pre-kids version, but the wiser, softer, stronger version that 49 (and soon 50) is shaping me into.

So tonight, I’m celebrating quietly. Maybe with a cup of tea, maybe with a glass of wine, definitely with a grateful heart. For the childhood that shaped me, the friends who walked beside me, the ornaments that still hang every Christmas, the kids who made me a mother, and the woman I'm becoming, even now.

Here’s to 49.

And here’s to stepping into 50 with open arms, strong legs, a clearer mind, and a heart full of appreciation for all the little things that were never really little at all.