A Little Tree, A Little Light

Day 7 — November 30, 2025

Today felt like the gentlest shift. The kind you almost miss if you blink too hard. Not a breakthrough. Not fireworks. Just a tiny internal click, like some part of me finally remembered how to turn a wheel.

Maybe it was the leftover snow softening the world. Maybe it was the quiet of a Sunday morning doing her seductive thing. Maybe exhaustion finally gave way to something that almost resembled readiness.

Whatever it was, something in me whispered, “Try.” So I did.

I put up a Christmas tree today. My first in years. Roger’s first ever. Which means it was also his first attempt at being festive and confused at the same time. A talent he executed flawlessly.

Last year, I had nothing to give the holidays. Not energy, not joy, not even pretend cheer.
Everything was too sharp, too dark, too heavy. Survival took all my oxygen. Hope felt like a foreign language with no translation.

But today today felt different.

I dragged out the little 4-foot pre-lit tree I’d been ignoring since moving in and set it in the corner by the window. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t curated. It wasn’t one of those influencer trees with color themes and meticulously placed ribbon.

It was slightly crooked. A little sparse. And absolutely, undeniably perfect.

Down in the basement storage, I found a box of old ornaments. Mismatched, dusty, shimmering with memories of many past holidays. Hanging them felt grounding, like stitching myself to a timeline I’d been severed from but never truly lost.

Roger supervised with religious devotion, following every ornament like he sensed a ritual underway. Maybe he was right. Dogs understand beginnings better than humans ever do.

I put on Christmas music. The real stuff, the nostalgic stuff, the kind that smells like childhood and whispered wishes you made before you knew disappointment had an edge.

I made myself a pumpkin spice latte because obviously. And as the cinnamon-air wrapped around me, something inside my chest flickered awake.

I felt merry. Not glittery merry. Not rom-com merry. Not “I’m back, bitches!” merry. Just quietly, stubbornly, unexpectedly merry.

It wasn’t about the holiday. It wasn’t about decor. It wasn’t about tradition.

It was an act of reclamation. A gentle rebellion against everything this year tried to take from me. A whispered declaration of I’m still here. I’m still capable of joy. I’m still building something in the ruins.

Tonight the tree sits glowing in the corner, tiny lights bouncing off ornaments that have survived a dozen versions of me. Roger keeps checking the bottom branches like he’s waiting for magic to drop a treat.

And honestly? The tree feels like proof.

Proof that healing doesn’t drag you backward. Proof that it doesn’t return you to who you were. Proof that sometimes healing builds someone new. Something softer, braver, gentler, wilder, and more alive. Someone who can put up a tree again.

Tomorrow begins a new week. A heavy one, a meaningful one, a terrifying one. But tonight, I’m letting myself sit in the glow of a 4-foot miracle and breathe like someone who believes in beginnings again.

And for that, I’m grateful.