💛 My Mom Loved the Holidays — And This Year, Her Absence Is Loud

My mom loved the holidays in that classic “I’m not doing anything special” way — while somehow making everything magical. She loved the twinkle lights, the smell of fresh baking, the warmth of people gathering. She loved the chaos too, even though she’d roll her eyes at it. If something burned, if someone was late, if wrapping paper ended up everywhere… she secretly thrived in it.

And this year… she’s not here. And that absence is loud.

Grief doesn’t march in with a megaphone — it whispers. It slips into the tiny cracks of December:

• When I'm wrapping a gift and realize I’m not sending one to her.

• When a Christmas song comes on and I remember how she used to hum the harmony.

• When I set the table and instinctively reach for one more plate before catching myself.

• When I find a photo of us and it stops me right in my tracks.

  
  

It’s in those quiet, unsuspecting moments that grief does its heaviest lifting. Your heart is working overtime, trying to carry the love, the longing, the memories — while your brain is trying to function like everything is fine. Spoiler: everything is not fine. And that’s the truth no one prepares you for.

There’s this emotional tug-of-war happening inside: Part of me wants to go full holiday mode — bake the cookies, play the music, decorate every corner of my house. And the other part of me just wants a quiet room, a soft blanket, and permission to feel the ache.

It’s a strange season, where joy and sadness sit at the same table. And I had to find something that helped me stay present in both without feeling like I was drowning in either.

In the middle of that emotional whirlwind, I needed something steady — something that didn’t demand anything from me, didn’t require me to smile, didn’t ask me to “be okay.” Something that simply held space for me.

That grounding place ended up being PBM — my red light ritual. Not because it fixes grief, but because it gives my nervous system a safe place to land. It helps me show up for life, for my business, my dad and most importantly… for myself.

It became this gentle reminder: Even when the world feels dim, I can still choose moments of light.

Love you Mom