How do you welcome what’s ahead when you still miss what was?
I’ve been thinking about that as I decorate for Christmas while there are still autumn leaves outside my window.
Every year, I find myself caught between these two seasons. And honestly, I love them both.
I love the beauty of fall—the changing leaves, the crispness in the air, the layers, an autumn candle burning, and a warm cup of coffee in my hands. I want to linger in it. Enjoy it before it’s gone.
And yet, I usually decorate for Christmas early. Mostly because of my schedule, but also because I love the lights and the coziness they bring into my home.
So there I am, enjoying the autumn colors outside while the Christmas tree glows inside.
One season still holding my attention while another begins making itself at home.
Lately, that feels a lot like my heart.
Since losing Freddy, I’ve often felt like I’m living between two chapters. I carry so much love for the life we shared while trying to open my heart to the life still in front of me.
And that’s more complicated than simply turning a page.
Because I didn’t stop loving that life. I didn’t reach the end of it feeling ready for something different. There were still plans. Still ordinary days I wanted to have together. Still so much I thought was ahead of us.
Yet here I am, being given days to live that look different from the ones I imagined.
There is gratitude in that. There is also grief.
And as the holidays approach, there’s another layer.
Traditions that once felt familiar now come with questions. Do we keep things the same? Change them? Will doing what we’ve always done bring comfort, or make the empty place feel even more noticeable?
Family dynamics can carry their own tension. Different needs. Different expectations. Different ways of grieving. Even when we love each other, figuring out how to be together after loss can be tender.
Sometimes a familiar gathering brings the changes into sharper focus.
And in the middle of it all, I miss having my person beside me.
Someone to talk things through with. Someone who knew the history without needing the whole explanation. Someone I could look at across the room and know he understood.
Someone to help carry the practical responsibilities and the emotional weight.
Sometimes a decision or a conversation makes his absence feel especially heavy. I wish we could figure it out together. I miss the relief of knowing I didn’t have to carry everything by myself.
That’s part of the weight of entering another holiday season. Along with missing him, I’m learning how to navigate all the things we once navigated together.
And still, there are moments I look forward to.
An idea takes shape. An opportunity opens. Something makes me laugh. I turn on the Christmas lights and feel grateful for the warmth of my home.
Then I wish I could share it with him.
Sometimes the very thing that brings me joy reminds me of who isn’t here to experience it with me.
The joy and the missing show up together.
I’m still learning how to make room for that. How to make new plans when I wish he were part of them. How to welcome something beautiful without feeling that I’m putting distance between myself and the life we shared.
This is where I’m learning to trust God—with both the ache and the anticipation.
Some days, that means asking for wisdom about a family conversation. Other days, it means giving myself permission to adjust a tradition, accept help, or enjoy a moment without questioning whether I should.
I can love the life we had and still care deeply about the life I’m living. I can miss Freddy and still want to be present for what God has entrusted to me today.
My grief doesn’t have to be finished before I receive something good.
Maybe that’s why the view from my living room means a little more to me this year.
There are still autumn leaves outside my window. There are Christmas lights glowing inside.
And I have affection for both.
I’m still tender in the missing. I’m also finding moments of anticipation. Sometimes I feel the weight of what has changed, and sometimes I feel ready to take another step.
God, meet me here. Help me carry what feels heavy, receive the joy that comes, and stay open to the life still unfolding.