A Quiet Beginning

Last night, the house settled early.

The tree lights were still on—the kind of glow that doesn’t ask for anything, it simply offers warmth. I sat a little longer than usual, letting the evening land. Letting myself feel it.

This weekend feels like a marker.

I turned fifty-five on Thursday. A number that once felt abstract, but now feels earned. I spent the morning with Freya—her presence alone a kind of blessing—and later shared dinner with Aaron at Sunday’s. The food was beautiful. The conversation easy. There was laughter. There was care. There was effort. I noticed it all.

Yesterday, Freya spent the day with us.

We decorated our real Christmas tree together, beginning the twelve days of Christmas in the most ordinary and sacred way. My hope is that we’ve just begun a new tradition—Grammie, Grampie, and Miss Freya Bloom—rooted in presence, not perfection. While Mommy and Daddy went off to do their Christmas shopping and spend time together, we stayed home making something simple and meaningful. A quiet win for everyone.

This morning, we’re going to see The Messiah, with Aaron’s mother singing in the choir. It feels especially meaningful this year—something about tradition, voice, and spirit coming together when you’re ready to receive it.

I find myself reflecting on how far things have come—not dramatically, not loudly—but honestly. There were years when I didn’t know how I would get through, when everything felt uncertain and heavy. I didn’t leave. I didn’t disappear. I stayed. I did the work. Quietly. Imperfectly.

And now, here I am.

Christmas is approaching, and instead of bracing myself, I feel a gentle steadiness inside. A sense that I can let this season meet me where I am. That I don’t have to rush through joy or question it when it shows up.

We’re leaving 2025 in a very different place than where 2020 began—that much I know for sure. And while not everything is resolved, something important has settled.

Peace feels closer to the surface.
Gratitude arrives more easily.
Happiness stays a little longer.

This is my why.
This is my spirit.
This is my reason for the season: love.

If you’re in a season of reflection too—standing at the edge of another year—I hope you’ll give yourself permission to notice what’s quietly working. What has softened. What has held.

Take a breath.
Let this moment be enough.

— Crystal