We don’t get breaks from cancer.
There’s no out-of-office reply for scans, symptoms, side effects, or the quiet fear that hums in the background. Cancer doesn’t take holidays, doesn’t wrap itself up neatly, doesn’t step aside just because the calendar says it’s Christmas.
And yet—here we are.
Another December. Another tree. Another set of lights strung up while carrying more than anyone can see.
This time of year can feel complicated. Heavy. Emotional in ways that don’t always make sense. Some of us are celebrating while grieving. Some of us are surviving while pretending we’re okay for the sake of tradition. Some of us are just trying to make it through the next two days without falling apart.
And all of that is allowed.
I don’t believe in toxic positivity, especially not here. I don’t believe Christmas magically fixes hard things. But I do believe in moments. Small, quiet, imperfect moments that still matter.
I hope—just for a few minutes at a time—you find pockets of presence.
Maybe it’s sitting on the couch with the tree lights on and nowhere you need to be.
Maybe it’s laughing at a dumb joke that sneaks up on you.
Maybe it’s a warm drink, a favorite song, or a memory that doesn’t hurt as much as you expected.
Maybe it’s simply breathing and realizing you’re still here.
Christmas doesn’t have to look like it used to.
It doesn’t have to be loud, or busy, or perfect.
It can be softer now. Quieter. Slower. More intentional.
And if joy shows up—even briefly—you’re allowed to take it without guilt.
You’re also allowed to feel sad. Or tired. Or disconnected. You’re allowed to miss people. You’re allowed to grieve the version of yourself or your life that existed before all of this. None of that makes you ungrateful. It makes you human.
This season isn’t about pretending everything is okay.
It’s about letting something be okay—even if it’s small.
And today, I’m especially thinking of those of you who are spending this time differently than you hoped.
If you’re sitting in a chemo chair today.
If you’re in a hospital room instead of your living room.
If you’re counting down until treatment starts again after the holidays.
If you’re bracing yourself for what comes next.
Please know—you are not forgotten.
You matter just as much here as anyone opening gifts or sitting around a table. Your strength doesn’t go unseen, even on days when it feels invisible. I hope you feel held in some small way today, even if it’s only through knowing someone is thinking of you.
And then there’s Mojo.
Mojo doesn’t understand cancer or Christmas expectations. He doesn’t care if the day goes exactly as planned. He just knows the lights are pretty, the house smells different, his people are home, and there are extra opportunities for cuddles.
Mojo reminds me to stay right where my feet are. To soak up warmth when it’s available. To rest when my body asks. To find comfort in the simple things—soft blankets, familiar routines, love that doesn’t require explanation.
If you’re struggling this Christmas, I hope you can borrow a little of that energy.
Be gentle with yourself.
Lower the bar.
Let “enough” be enough.
You don’t need to make magic.
You are the magic for simply being here.
However you’re entering these next couple of days—joyful, grieving, numb, hopeful, exhausted, or all of it at once—I hope you find moments that feel steady. Moments that remind you that even without a pause button, life still gives us places to rest.
Merry Christmas, from my heart, from this space, and from a grey Frenchie who believes the best gift is love and proximity. 🐾🎄
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No pressure—your presence alone matters more than you know.
However Christmas looks for you this year, I’m glad you’re here. 🤍
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