Holding It Together (Most Days) During the Holidays

Somewhere between cheer practice, work deadlines, grief that doesn’t clock out, and trying to remember if I ate something other than ice chips today, I realized something:

The holidays hit different when your life doesn’t look like it used to.

I’m raising a competitive cheerleading tween—twelve going on twenty-one—who has opinions, a packed schedule, and the kind of confidence that makes me proud and exhausted at the same time. I’m navigating a family landscape that has changed more than once. I carry loss that doesn’t take December off. And I work in spaces that don’t always want people like me there—unless I shrink, soften, or overperform just enough to be “acceptable.”

And somehow, I’m still expected to keep it together.

Smile.

Show up.

Make magic.

Let me say this plainly:

Some of us aren’t falling apart—we’re just tired of pretending we’re not tired.

The holidays have a way of magnifying everything. What’s missing. What’s changed. What hurts. And at the same time, they come with this unspoken pressure to be grateful, joyful, festive, and fully functional.

That tension is real.

You can love your child fiercely and still feel overwhelmed.

You can be grateful and grieving at the same time.

You can enjoy moments and still feel the weight of everything else you’re carrying.

None of that makes you broken.

It makes you human.

Here’s what I’m learning—slowly, imperfectly, sometimes while talking to myself in the car:

You don’t have to become a different version of yourself just because the season changed.

You don’t owe anyone a performance.

You don’t have to recreate traditions that no longer fit your life.

You don’t have to explain why your joy looks quieter this year.

Some of us are building new rhythms while carrying old wounds.

Some of us are parenting through change while trying not to project our fears onto our kids.

Some of us are holding space for everyone else while reminding ourselves not to disappear in the process.

That’s not weakness.

That’s grit.

There are days when I feel like I’m doing a thousand things halfway—and still showing up anyway. Days when “productive” looks like keeping everybody fed, dressed, and emotionally intact. Days when success is getting through without snapping, spiraling, or crying in public.

And honestly? That counts.

Here’s the part nobody puts on a holiday card:

Loving who you are right now is an act of resistance.

Loving yourself when you’re not shiny.

Loving yourself when you’re tired.

Loving yourself when you’re still figuring it out.

Loving yourself when your life doesn’t match the highlight reel.

That kind of love isn’t lazy.

It’s earned.

It’s earned through nights you stayed up worrying.

Through rooms where you felt watched more than welcomed.

Through losses you don’t talk about because explaining them would take too much energy.

Through showing up anyway—even when everything in you wanted to sit this season out.

Some days, keeping it together looks like:

choosing rest over tradition

choosing honesty over harmony

choosing boundaries over explanations

choosing yourself without apology

That’s not selfish.

That’s survival with intention.

If this season finds you renegotiating family roles, navigating grief quietly, raising kids who are growing faster than you’re ready for, or holding your own in spaces that test your confidence—pause long enough to acknowledge what you’ve already carried.

You’ve adapted before.

You’re adapting again.

And you don’t have to do it perfectly.

This season may not look like what you planned.

But it can still be meaningful.

It can still be grounding.

It can still hold moments of connection—even if they look different now.

So if all you can do some days is keep it moving, crack a joke, show up tired, and love the people in front of you—baby, that’s enough.

You’re not failing at the holidays.

You’re living honestly in them.

And that takes courage.

So here’s your permission slip:

Love who you are.

Love where you are.

Stop apologizing for surviving.

You’re doing better than you think.