✨ Where the Twinkle Lights Would Be: Blankets, boundaries, and glimmers still to come
🪺Glimmer Nest - Stories of Resilience, Strategies for Thriving
Last week I shared a book that’s been helping me navigate hard conversations. This week I want to share what that’s looked like in practice, here in the middle of a very different kind of holiday season.
We haven’t left the house in quite some time.
My son is going through a rough stretch. Sensory stuff, depression, the weight of processing the world feeling heavier than usual. We’re making progress, but home is where he can manage. Home is where he feels safe. So home is where we stay.
For him, this means no holiday bustle. No twinkle lights in town, no outings, no big meals with extended family. He’s not interested in the trappings this year. No turkey, no baking treats together. His world has gotten smaller, and within that smaller world, he’s slowly finding his footing again. He’s more conversational than he’s been in months. He’s moved beyond our tenth rewatch of Maine Cabin Masters (all ten seasons, three times through) and found his way back to Monsters, Inc. and some new holiday content on Disney. He’s helping get the things we need to eat. Spoon, bowl, the basics. It sounds tiny. It’s enormous.
For me, this has meant something unexpected. My own threshold for interaction has lowered too. I don’t miss the shopping. I don’t miss the questions. What are you doing for the holidays? What’s on your Christmas list? Will you be traveling? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I just want to stay cozy under blankets with my boy.
It feels safer here.
But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t grief in it.
In years past, scrolling through my November and December photos felt like flipping through a holiday catalog of our lives. Bright flickers of red. Twinkle lights everywhere. Photos by the tree, his holiday drawings, hanging ornaments, giggles in the snow. Photo ops in decorative sleighs, posing near ice sculpture displays, mugs of cocoa at the neighborhood bakery. The scroll would go on and on, image after image, each one a little burst of holiday magic captured. I could spend ages just looking back at a single season.
This year, I imagine scrolling through and finding... almost nothing. A quiet November bleeding into a quiet December, and then maybe an abrupt jump to March. Maybe some baked cookies will make their way in there. We’ll see. It’s a strange kind of loss to sit with, the absence of something you didn’t realize you were documenting until it wasn’t there anymore.
We also live far from family. Over a thousand miles, in another state entirely. Unless people travel to us, we’re simply not going to see them in person. This will be the first year my husband travels to see the grown kids while I stay home with our son. The added stress of traveling for him, and honestly for me, would be too much. Hours in a car, unfamiliar foods, navigating house to house. It’s not happening this year. I know it’s right. I’m still sad about it.
What has helped is getting clearer about what I can and can’t do. This is where Mitch Weisburgh’s work has shown up for me again. Mitch is the author of the MindShifting series, and I wrote last week about his newest book, Conflict and Collaboration. One of the things he covers is conflict styles, and my default has always been “avoid.” That pattern has followed me into this season. Family asking for gift lists, expectations about reciprocity, the unspoken pressure to participate in the usual exchange. For years I would have danced around it. Made vague excuses. Felt guilty.
This year I’ve been more direct than I’ve ever been. I have no extra money for gifts. I’m only buying for my son. That’s it. Standing firm on this has felt uncomfortable and necessary in equal measure. It’s not about being harsh. It’s about being honest about my capacity instead of pretending I have more than I do.
I’ve also been thinking about a podcast episode from Rachel Duncan CFT ATR-P’s Money Healing Club. She and Angie Fitzpatrick discuss a book called No New Things by Ashlee Piper, and while the focus is on spending, so much of it applies to energy too. One thing that struck me: eco-psychologists have found that cultivating a gratitude practice directly reduces impulse spending. The more we appreciate what we already have, the less we reach for more.
I think about that when I look around our quiet house. We have what we need. We have each other. We have slow mornings and safe foods and blankets piled high. We have a son who is, against all odds, starting to come back to himself.
The other thing Rachel said that stayed with me: give yourself permission to let go of the guilt. Not forever, necessarily. But for a season. For right now. You can return to the practices and expectations later. But if something is dragging on you, you’re allowed to set it down.
So that’s what I’m doing. Setting down the holiday I thought we’d have. Protecting my treasure, which right now means protecting our peace. Finding community in smaller ways, little online gatherings with people I don’t want to lose touch with. A caring circle, even if it’s not the one I imagined.
It’s a quieter December. But it’s ours.
Cozy thoughts,
P.S. If you missed last week’s issue, I shared Mitch Weisburgh’s book Conflict and Collaboration and how it’s helped me understand my own conflict patterns. The free Kindle download ends this Saturday night at midnight Pacific. Perfect timing for a weekend read!
And if Rachel Duncan’s Money Healing Club sounds like your kind of thing, give this episode a listen:
No New Things Book Club Episode
She’s also starting a Substack soon, and I can’t wait!
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I'd love this post even if I wasn't mentioned, Kat! I'm thrilled that my work has given you permission for even deeper alignment this season! I too have an autistic son, so I too share the grief of a dimmed light of "holiday specialness". He enjoys small doses. But we too ratchet way down, which is good for all of us. Thank you for writing this.
I read your post yesterday and it stayed with me. So much so, that I read it again today. I don't have children, but as someone who needs to adapt Christmas time to her chronic illness, it still very much resonates with me and makes me feel less alone. Beautifully written, thank you for sharing.