Stay with me, and for those who really know me, you can stop rolling your eyes now because I can do less; it’s just sometimes I choose not to.

This was my fourth Christmas without Tom. In past years, I’ve described Christmas as transitional. Some traditions from before stayed. Some new ones were cautiously introduced. I worked, and sometimes struggled, to keep pieces of the past alive while figuring out how to live life without my husband of 32 years.

Those Christmases mattered.
They were necessary.
They were also exhausting.

Last year, I wrote about hitting a wall. About that familiar funk where grief shows up wearing many disguises like sadness, anger, numbness, dread. I didn’t know how long it would last. I just knew I had to feel it and work my way through it. That was still a transitional Christmas, with one foot in what was and one foot unsure where to land.

This year felt different.

Not easier. Not painless. Just quieter.

There were still reflections. Still memories. Still that familiar ache of missing Tom and the life we shared. But the pressure to recreate Christmas exactly as it used to be wasn’t there. The struggle to hold everything together didn’t show up. And honestly, the absence of that struggle surprised me.

This year, thanks to a series of unfortunate events like a torn calf muscle, losing our Lou-bear, and some travel, I didn’t get all the Christmas decorations out. And let’s be clear: Hobby Lobby and HomeSense did not explode inside my house for once during December. I managed a small tree, a few wreaths, and stockings. The rest was subtle; candles, ornaments resting in pretty bowls, enough to say we decorated without demanding a performance. I mean, I used my buffet to place all the presents because why not!

Instead of stressing over multiple trees and the 35+ years of decorations I’ve curated, Trey and I kept it simple. And what I chose to pour my time and energy into instead was baking, something I haven’t done in many, many years.

Baking forces you to slow down. To pay attention. To be present.
Who has time for that?

Apparently, I didn’t because I was busy decorating.

I made cookies from my childhood. My mom’s pecan sandies. The first batch was a failure. A quick call with her helped me figure out the mistake, and the second try was perfect. That first bite stopped me in my tracks. It tasted like Christmas. Like being a little girl again.

In past years, doing things differently felt like a betrayal of Tom and the Christmases we shared. That’s why I worked so hard to keep traditions alive, to preserve them, protect them, prove something through them.

But this year, that feeling wasn’t as strong.

And here’s the truth: the betrayal wasn’t in doing less.
It was in realizing that this Christmas reflected who I am today. Not the wife I was ten years ago.

I didn’t just adjust a transitional Christmas.
I moved past it.

I removed parts of the old without rushing to replace them. I found a new way. One that worked. One that didn’t stress me out. One that allowed me to be present in a way I haven’t been in a very long time.

This was also my second Christmas with Grant and his kids. Last year, everything was new and tender. We moved carefully, aware of the weight each of us carried, respectful of the past and pain that shaped us. It was a year of learning how to share space, emotionally and literally, without overwriting what came before.

This year felt different.

His kids gave both Grant and me thoughtful gifts. Gifts that reflected the past while acknowledging the present. They didn’t ignore where we all came from, but they didn’t get stuck there either. It was a quiet acknowledgment that memory and movement can exist at the same time.

What none of us planned and what made the moment even more meaningful was how naturally Tom and Clare were woven into it all.

Without knowing what his kids were up to, Grant and I gave them a beautiful reminder that their mom is always with them. Not in a heavy way. Not in a way that demanded sadness. Just present. Steady. Familiar.

It mirrored what their gifts had already done for us. Acknowledging the past without being trapped by it. A quiet understanding that love doesn’t disappear when someone is gone. It shows up differently. In small objects. In familiar handwriting or their voice. In moments that say, you’re still held.

That kind of exchange can’t be forced. It only happens with time, trust, love and a willingness to let memory and movement share the same space.

Last year, two families came together carefully, almost tiptoeing around grief and memories. We were learning a new normal, afraid of stepping on what once was. We gave ourselves a year to find our rhythm.

This Christmas, those same two families came together again. Less hesitant, more confident, more settled into a life being built in the present, not the past.

Even as the years press on, the ones we have loved and lost remain with us. They don’t disappear as life moves forward; they continue to guide us as we learn how to live and love after loss. We don’t betray them by moving forward. In moving forward, they get to live. Carried in our memories, woven into new traditions, and present in the quiet moments that shape who we are becoming.

This Christmas reminded me that love doesn’t end. It adapts.
And if we let it, it grows right alongside us.

Less really was more.

Lara