December has always been a joy for me. While autumn is my favorite season, there’s something so inherently magical and spirit-lifting about the holiday season. Whatever it is you celebrate—there are over a dozen holidays throughout the month—it usually brings some version of joy. At least it does for me. I don’t pretend to speak for everyone: I know multiple people who find sadness and anxiety during the holiday season, whether it be from the loss of a loved one, previous trauma, or abusive families. Before I begin anything about this previous month, I’ll say this: it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way I do. I love you and I support you all the same. You’re more than welcome to click away from this post if it’s triggering. I understand. <3
Like I said, December is usually a delightful month for me, and it was, still, this insane year. Joy came in the tiring magick of baking dozens of Christmas cookies, during a yearly tradition that my family has come to call “Cookie Chaos.” It came in blankets strewn across laps, peppermint hot cocoa in hand. It came in guzzling eggnog from Christmas glasses (after throwing back a dairy pill, of course: what up, my lactose intolerant friends). It came in shrieking over holiday décor and Christmas lights. It came in the music of Blackmore’s Night and Pentatonix. It came in the excitement and anticipation of sharing gifts around the fire and confusing the hell out of our dog, who sniffed at every piece of wrapping as if it could explode. It came in the receiving of ten (10!) new novels to indulge in, in the reading of A Christmas Carol for the first time, in endlessly chaotic and loud groupings of loved ones. It came in celebrating two years with the love of my life. It even came in the snow and the cold (I’m forever freezing: you learn this quickly if you know me in real life); at least I could justify needing fuzzy socks and sweatshirts (like my favorite one from Leaf & Lore Co. – not sponsored, just awesome!).
In previous years, December brought happiness from coming back to my family (and, the last year, my boyfriend) after being at school, separated, since late August. After not seeing them for months, I would run (slo-mo, if you will) through the airport to throw myself at whoever had come to greet me. Though I’ve been home since March of 2020 (a very long spring break), the smiles of being around those I love did not change. It was merely amplified by the season.
That’s not to say there weren’t trials. My brain loves to kill me near the end of the year, anticipating the arrival of a new one and beating myself up for not getting ahead, not getting enough done, falling too far behind. Like, why would you sleep when you could be working, right? But that’s not true. I mean, god, guys. We survived a year of intense anxiety, fear, loneliness, and guilt. We made it through a year of painful-but-necessary growth, a year of revealing the world’s faults and beginning the healing process. That’s enough. It should be enough. I have to keep reminding myself of that, too.
I could write a whole reflection on 2020. I still might. But, right now, I don’t think that’s what needed. What’s needed is to know where you came from and to push onwards, forever learning, forever healing, forever growing. After all, is that not what Mother Nature does upon its ascent from winter?
It grows.
Hi, January.
Hey, 2021.
Your turn now.
~Rhiannon~
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