The Bittersweet Beauty of Changing Traditions

As December begins and we step fully into the holiday season, I find myself caught between two emotions: joy and sadness. They sit side by side, neither one canceling out the other, both feeling equally true.

The joy comes from all the things I love about this time of year—the bright, twinkling Christmas trees, endless Hallmark movies where Mr. or Ms. Right find each other in some impossibly charming small town, and most importantly, the promise of time spent with the people I love most.

But there's also loss. And even though I know it's coming every year, it still catches me off guard.

The Weekend That Reminded Me What Matters

I know, terrible pic, but you get the idea!

Thanksgiving weekend was a beautiful reminder of why I love this season. We spent it at my sister's house—14 people total when you count her family, mine, significant others, and friends. Both my daughters brought their partners. In fact, it was the first time meeting my younger daughter's boyfriend, and he fit right in. (Even if we maybe hazed him a little by having him stand for the Pledge of Allegiance after grace. It was all in good fun, I promise!)

Did I mention we also had six dogs among us?

When you squeeze 14 people into one moderately sized house, you're guaranteed fun, laughter, and yes, a wait for the bathroom. These chaotic, joy-filled moments are exactly what I love most about the holidays.

The Traditions We Lost Along the Way

Family of Four

But here's what I don't expect this time of year, even though I should: the ache of long-standing traditions that no longer exist and the absence of people who used to be here.

I knew logically that eventually my children would grow up and couple up. I understood that "family of four" moments would become rarer. These days, I'm honestly grateful just to have both daughters home at the same time, never mind having them all to ourselves.

But being a bit "seasoned" now means feeling that loss more acutely during the holidays.

Both my parents have passed. My in-laws, while still around, are aging and not as active as they once were. For all the years my girls were growing up, Christmas Eve at Nana and Papa's house was THE event. All the siblings and their children gathered. Nana always had a million appetizers and cocktails ready. The house was warm with the fireplace burning, and there were always lots of presents for the kids.

It was a standing plan. A tradition we could count on. Until it wasn't.

The Traditions We Built

As the kids got older, we added our own traditions—going to a movie during the day, attending church, stopping at Buffalo Wild Wings before heading to my in-laws' place. Facebook memories surface photos from those years this time of year, and they always bring a smile to my face.

Those traditions felt so permanent when we were living them. Now they're just memories too.

Watching the Cycle Continue

My older daughter FaceTimed me this week to show off her Christmas decorations. She's doing now what I used to do—trying to split time equally between both families, building up her own collection of holiday decor, baking her own Christmas cookies. And she's not even married or has children yet.

I'm excited to see what those years will bring for her. But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a little pang watching her create a life that naturally means less room for me in it.

The Memories That Shaped Me

I still pine for my own childhood Christmas Eves at my aunt and uncle's house. Every single year, without fail, my Uncle Ray would "get sick" right after dinner and have to lie down. And every single year, as if by magic, Santa would appear with a bag full of presents while poor Uncle Ray was mysteriously absent.

He never caught Santa. Not once in all those years. What are the odds?

Those memories are golden—my parents, my sisters, the anticipation, the magic of believing, the warmth of being surrounded by family who loved us.

Finding Peace in the In-Between

I know these upcoming years will bring new traditions and ultimately new memories. I'm looking forward to grandchildren someday, to watching my daughters create their own family magic.

But I also know there will be holidays—maybe many of them—when it's just my husband and me. When everyone else has other plans and commitments. When our house is quiet instead of chaotic.

That reality makes me sad. But it also makes me deeply thankful.

Thankful that my heart has been so filled by memories of the past. Thankful for the hope of what's yet to come. Thankful that I've loved enough people and been loved enough in return to feel this bittersweet ache during the holidays.

The Gift of Bittersweet

Here's what I'm learning: The sadness doesn't diminish the joy. The loss doesn't erase the love. They coexist, and maybe that's exactly as it should be.

The holidays change as we change. Traditions evolve or disappear. People we love leave us, either through death or through the natural progression of building their own lives. Our role shifts from center stage to supporting player.

And all of it—every bit of it—is part of loving deeply and living fully.

So this December, I'm holding space for both emotions. The joy of twinkling lights and family gatherings. The sadness of empty chairs and fading traditions. The gratitude for what was, what is, and what's yet to come.

Because that's what being "seasoned" means—understanding that life is always both/and, never either/or. Joy and sadness. Presence and absence. Holding on and letting go.

And somehow, impossibly, it's all beautiful.