The Holidays - A Time for Reflection, Hope, and Connection

There’s something magical about the holidays. The twinkling lights, the scent of pine trees, the familiar melodies of Christmas carols—all of it stirs up a deep, nostalgic joy in me. But this year, as I unpacked my box of cherished decorations, I felt a bittersweet pang. The holidays have changed for me, and I suppose for many of us, as the years have rolled on.

Our family and friends used to fill a room with laughter and stories, the air thick with the scent of my mother’s famous roast turkey (or smoked brisket) and a table groaning under the weight of pies, casseroles, and more than one argument about who was going to sit where. Now, it’s just me and my daughter. The absence of the elders, who held everything together, is felt more keenly every year. I miss them fiercely—their wisdom, their warmth, my father’s gruffness, their way of making even the most ordinary day feel extraordinary.

Still, I love this season. I always have. I can’t resist stringing lights around my trees and bushes in front of my house, baking cookies and pies, and playing the Pentatonix Holiday station on Pandora continuously. But it feels... quieter now. The kind of quiet that comes with time and loss.

That’s why I find myself dreaming about what the holidays could look like in a place like Gratitude Village, the cohousing community I’m developing and hoping to call home. It’s a vision that keeps me warm as the nights grow colder and longer.

I imagine stepping out of my door onto the common green bustling with neighbors stringing lights together. I see children laughing as they decorate a giant tree in the common house, their excitement contagious. I picture potlucks where everyone brings a dish that represents a piece of their story, their culture, their traditions. We’d sip hot cocoa, swap recipes, and maybe even sing carols (off-key, but who cares?).

The idea of a shared holiday feast is especially comforting. Not just for the food—though I do love a good scalloped potato casserole and cheese board brimming with goodies—but for the camaraderie. The chance to sit at a long table surrounded by people who’ve chosen to be each other’s family, who understand that connection is what truly makes this season bright.

It’s not that I want to replace my own family traditions. It’s that I want to expand them, to find new ways to celebrate that honor the past but embrace the present. And, let’s be honest, the idea of sharing the workload of holiday prep sounds pretty fantastic. I wouldn’t mind having someone else take over the turkey for a change!

This year, as I light the candles and hang the ornaments, I’m holding on to hope. Hope that in a few short years, I’ll be celebrating the holidays in a community that feels like an extended family. A place where the joy of the season is magnified by the laughter, generosity, and spirit of togetherness that comes from living in a cohousing neighborhood like Gratitude Village.

The holidays feel different now, but different doesn’t have to mean worse. It can mean a new kind of magic. And that’s something worth anticipating!