I used to measure the holidays in the little things — the chaos of last-minute shopping, the smell of sugar cookies in the oven, the arguments over who was bringing what to dinner, the twinkly lights Pete would always swear he wasn’t going to hang and then still hang anyway.
This year looks different.
Everything does.
When you’re living with cancer, especially stage four, time stops acting like something you can count on. The calendar keeps moving forward whether your body is ready or not, whether your energy cooperates or not, whether your heart feels festive or quietly breaking.
And I feel it this season — the difference. The distance. The weight.
The Holidays in a Sick Body
Nobody tells you that something as simple as putting up a tree might feel like running a marathon. That holding a warm cup of cocoa might hurt your hands. That watching family bustle around you might make you feel… separate. Like you’re present but not fully in it.
I sleep more. I move slower. I cancel plans I wanted so badly to keep.
And each time, I feel a little guilty — even though I know I shouldn’t.
The holidays used to mean going everywhere, seeing everyone, doing everything.
Now they mean protecting what little energy I have left, choosing carefully, and hoping people understand it isn’t lack of love — it’s lack of strength.
When Finances Change the Season Too
And then there’s the part nobody sees unless they’ve lived it — how a diagnosis rearranges your bank account just as much as it rearranges your life.
Co-pays, scans, medications, ER visits, medical bills that seem to regenerate overnight… they add up.
They chip away at the “fun” money, the holiday budgets, the little traditions you didn’t realize had price tags until you couldn’t justify them anymore.
It’s not that I don’t want to do the things I used to.
It’s that now every decision asks, “Do I need this, or do I need to save my strength and save my wallet?”
And that’s a kind of grief too — quietly letting go of the extras so you can survive the essentials.
But even that has taught me something:
Sometimes the simplest version of a holiday holds the most meaning.
Grief Wrapped in Garland
There’s a quiet grief in watching the world celebrate when your own world feels fragile. A grief for the traditions you can’t keep up with. For the version of yourself who could do it all. For the memories you used to recreate without thinking twice.
But there’s also a softness to it — a new kind of meaning that only comes when life gets brutally small and incredibly precious.
Suddenly, it’s not about the big gatherings or the perfect gifts.
It’s about the peaceful mornings when Pete turns on the tree lights because he knows it makes me smile.
It’s about the single gingerbread cookie I have energy to decorate, instead of the dozen I used to.
It’s about the one special outing I can manage — the one moment where I feel human and normal and almost like myself again.
The Magic Hasn’t Disappeared — It’s Just Quieter
I’m learning that the holidays aren’t ruined. They’re not lost.
They’re just… different.
Smaller. Slower. Softer.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe this season isn’t about what I can do — but who I can still be for the people who love me.
Maybe it’s about letting myself be held instead of trying to hold everything together.
Maybe it’s about honoring the girl I used to be while making room for the woman I am now — the one fighting like hell just to be here.
Mojo’s POV (because he always gets the last word):
“Hi, it’s me, Mojo. Mom says holidays are different, but I think different can be good. She’s warm, she’s here, and she still lets me sniff the stockings even when she’s too tired to hang them up. I sit by her feet so she doesn’t get lonely and I guard the tree from suspicious ornaments. I don’t need a big Christmas — I just need her. And I hope she knows that having her here is already the best gift.”
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