Home for the Holidays (Wherever That Is)

We carry the light with us.

There's a particular kind of ache that comes this time of year.

It shows up in the Christmas movies where everyone gathers at Grandma's farmhouse—the one with the worn wooden table that's held fifty years of holiday dinners. It whispers in the carols about going home for Christmas, as if home is a fixed point on a map we can all navigate back to.

For those of us who've moved more times than we can count—or who've lost the places and people that once meant "home"—the holiday season can feel like standing outside a warmly lit window, looking in.

I've celebrated Christmas in base housing and rental homes, in places where I didn't know a single neighbor's name, in states I'd lived in for barely three months. I've assembled artificial trees in living rooms I knew I wouldn't see the following year. And for a long time, I carried a quiet grief about that—the belief that I was somehow missing out on realChristmas because I didn't have a place to go back to.

But here's what all that moving taught me, eventually:

Home was never the house.

It was never the town or the zip code or even the people gathered around the table—though those things are precious. Home, I've come to believe, is something you cultivate within yourself. It's a kind of internal anchor that holds steady even when everything around you shifts.

And while we're letting go of the movie version of Christmas, can we talk about family for a moment?

Because here's the truth: family is everything to me. And family is also complicated.

Both things are true.

The holidays have a way of amplifying this tension. We're supposed to gather in warmth and harmony, but real families come with real history. Old wounds. Unspoken frustrations. The cousin who said that thing five years ago. The parent who never quite understood. The sibling relationship that's more polite than close.

Real families don't always look like the movies. Some of us are blending households and navigating step-relationships. Some of us have chosen family that matters more than blood. Some of us are estranged from people we once thought we'd never lose. Some of us are sitting with an empty chair this year—whether from death, distance, or decisions that created an unbridgeable gap.

None of this disqualifies you from Christmas.

And isn't that the original Christmas story anyway?

A young couple, far from everything familiar. No room at the inn. A baby born in borrowed space, surrounded by animals and hay and uncertainty. Nothing about that first Christmas looked like the warmly lit farmhouse in the movies.

Yet somehow, in the midst of displacement and discomfort, light came into the world.

That's what I hold onto now: the idea that the sacred doesn't require perfect circumstances. That peace isn't a location. That we can carry Christmas with us—the real heart of it—wherever we find ourselves.

And if we follow the example of the One who brought that light? We can find peace and joy in any circumstance. Not because the circumstances change, but because we do.

We can let go of grudges that have calcified into something heavier than they're worth. We can release the pent-up anger we've been carrying like a backpack full of stones. We can look at the people around our table—imperfect, frustrating, trying-their-best people—and recognize our shared humanity.

Because here's what I've learned: every single person you encounter is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Every single one. The relative who irritates you. The stranger in the grocery store. The person who cut you off in traffic on the way to Christmas dinner.

We are all human. All weak. All failing in our own particular ways.

What if, this Christmas, we decided to be a little kinder? To others, yes—but also to ourselves. What if we stopped demanding perfection from people who were never capable of giving it, including the person in the mirror?

I know the world can feel heavy right now. The headlines are relentless. The negativity algorithm is strong.

But there is so much goodness out there.

It just doesn't sell. It doesn't make the front page. Kindness is quiet. Generosity doesn't trend. But that doesn't mean it isn't happening—every single day, in a thousand small ways you'll never hear about.

I've come to believe that whatever you look for, you will find.

Look for evidence that people are terrible, and you'll find it. Look for reasons to be angry, afraid, or cynical, and they will appear on cue.

But look for goodness? Look for the helpers, the quiet kindnesses, the moments of grace extended between imperfect people?

I promise you—I promise you—it is there.

So wherever you are this Christmas—geographically, emotionally, spiritually—may you find that still point inside yourself. The one that doesn't depend on circumstances. The one that whispers, even in uncertainty: You are home. You are held. You belong.

May you extend a little more grace. Receive a little more peace. And find the goodness that's been there all along, waiting for you to look.

Merry Christmas, friends.