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It’s Christmas — or Christmas Eve — depending on where you are.
This week, my thoughts keep returning to family.
I’m acutely aware of how fortunate I am right now. Everyone in my immediate family is doing well, healthwise and lifewise. I know that won’t always be true. But this year, it is. And I don’t take that lightly.
My father loved Christmas. He loved his family, and he especially loved babies. When he was alive, there always seemed to be babies in the house—new lives arriving, arms constantly full. He died 14 years ago, and now those babies are older. Some are in college. Some have finished. A few are still making their way through middle school and high school.
Watching all of us grow up has been a quiet blessing. There is a particular kind of luck in being able to witness time this way — to see people move through stages, to still be here for it.
My mother is 86. She’ll be 87 in less than a month. Being a mother to six daughters, all raised in her image, is no small thing. Some days she is feisty; on others, she needs comfort. At times she is keenly aware of her aging, and at other times she has the freedom to forget it entirely. She is still with us — and that, on its own, feels like grace.
Families, of course, are complicated. There are seasons of closeness and seasons of distance. There is drama, disappointment, and sometimes real hurt. That’s not unusual — it’s just life, lived in proximity.
Me and my sisters from a very, very long time ago.
In my case, those harder stretches are ones we’ve managed to move through. As we get older, the way we interact changes, or at least we hope it does. There are things now that I choose not to argue about — not because I suddenly agree, but because being right doesn’t feel as important as staying connected. Time has a way of rearranging priorities. What once felt urgent now feels optional. What once felt unforgivable now feels … survivable.
Second chapters aren’t just about new projects or fresh starts. They’re also about imagining the life you want to live — and the people you want in it. I know that for some, stepping away from family is an act of survival, a necessary choice to protect their well-being. That’s not something I judge lightly. If it allows someone to live their best life, then it is what it is.
I have five sisters. We are all different, but each of us brings something essential to the family we are part of. The six of us share something that no one else can fully claim: the memories of our parents and our childhood. Only we know what life was like growing up in our home.
We were there for each other in delivery rooms as our own babies were born. We shared the shock and grief of our father’s death on the night it happened. We have celebrated milestones and holidays, losses and joys. Those moments belong to us collectively. They always will.
At Christmas, that shared history feels especially present. Not perfect. Not simple. But real — and worth holding close.
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