The Quiet After the Christmas Glow

There's always a moment after the Christmas tree comes down when the house feels... different.  Not bad- just quieter, barer, almost echoing in a way it hasn't for weeks.  The twinkle lights are packed aways, the ornaments carefully wrapped, and the familiar glow that carried us through December disappears in an afternoon.  I stood in the living room after I finished , taking it all in,  feeling that strange mix of relief and sadness that always comes when a season officially ends.  

This morning, though, the emptiness feels softer.

The house is still dark, wrapped in that early-morning hush I've come to cherish.  I'm curled up on the couch with a hot cup of coffee, steam rising slowly as if it , too, is waking up.  The teenagers are still asleep- as usual- and my husband hasn't stirred yet.  The only signs of life are Aspen our loyal English Lab, stretched in her usual spot on the couch, and Clyde and Jada, the cats, tucked in close on either side of me.  It's one of those moments that feels small and enormous all at once, the kinds you want to bottle up and save for later.

As I sit here writing , the calendar quietly flips in my mind.  We're standing at the edge of a new year--2025 fading, 2026 stepping forward.  A year that already feels heavy with meaning.  It continues to be the year of the "lasts" for my high school senior and 8th grader, but also the year full of new beginnings.  Such a juxtaposition.  I'm trying to organize, reset, to make sense of what's ahead.  High hopes of better systems, calmer mornings, and more intentional family time swirl around me along with the coffee aroma.  

This year marks the final stretch of senior year and 8th grade for our boys.  That alone feels monumental.  There are lasts happening everywhere-- last first days, last seasons, last milestones before  everything shifts.  And 2026? It promises transition and change in ways I can already feel in my bones.  Somehow, I've been given a front row seat to it all.  Equal parts exciting and terrifying, if I'm being honest.

So as we step into this new year, I'm thinking a lot about goals-- not the flashy, overwhelming kind that burn out by February, but attainable ones.  The kind built on steady effort and grace.  Goals that allow room for healing, and recovery from surgeries, for listening to our bodies, for choosing healthier living without perfection.  Goals that remind us food  can be simple and nourishing, made from scratch with intention and love.  Goals that pull us outside, into fresh air and  open spaces, where perspective feels easier to find.

This year will take work. Real work.  The kind that doesn't always show up in tidy planners or color coded calendars, (though I will use those tools for real). But it will also bring growth, deeper connection, and moments like this one-- quiet mornings, warm coffee, sleeping kids and a house full of love even without the Christmas lights.

The tree may be gone, but something new is already taking root.  And for now that feels like enough.

As I finish this cup of coffee and the sun slowly rises displaying the frosted cold ground outside, I find myself holding a simple wish for the year ahead-- not just for our family, but for others walking into 2026 with hope and uncertainty side by side.  May we all give ourselves permission to move forward gently.  To set goals that support us rather than weigh us down.  To heal, to grow, to show up for the people we love, and to notice the quiet moments when they arrive.

May this new year meet us where we are, and may we have the courage to meet it with open hearts.