The Christmas Wish

Christmas has always had a way of slowing time, at least for me. Not in the way movies portray it with perfect lights and flawless joy, but in a quieter, heavier way. It makes me pause. It makes me look back. It makes me take inventory of the year I have lived and the person I have become while living it.

This Christmas feels different. Not louder. Not flashier. Just deeper.

There was a time when I measured years by milestones, goals, accomplishments, and future plans. Now I measure them by moments. By clarity. By peace. By survival. By growth that cannot always be seen but is deeply felt.

This year asked more of me than most. And yet, somehow, I gave it what it asked.

I am thankful for that.

I am thankful for my health, even when it has not been perfect. I am thankful for scans that brought relief instead of fear. I am thankful for waking up on ordinary mornings and realizing how extraordinary that still is. Two years ago, mornings were uncertain. Today, they are a gift I no longer rush past.

I am thankful for my mind. For the mental work I have done quietly, patiently, and sometimes painfully. Learning how to sit with fear instead of letting it drive. Learning how to rest without guilt. Learning how to say no without explaining myself. Learning how to be present without constantly preparing for what might go wrong next.

There was a time when my thoughts were loud, relentless, and exhausting. This year, I found space. I found calm. I found moments of stillness that felt unfamiliar at first but eventually became necessary. That growth did not come from pretending everything was fine. It came from acknowledging that some days were heavy and letting them be heavy without judgment.

I am thankful for my body. For what it has endured. For what it continues to do despite everything it has been through. There were days I pushed it, days I protected it, days I listened to it, and days I ignored it. Through all of that, it kept showing up for me. That deserves gratitude.

I am thankful for movement, for travel, for experiences that reminded me I am still living, not just surviving. Trips that were not about escape but about presence. About exploration. About choosing joy even when it would have been easier to stay home and stay safe.

I am thankful for laughter. Real laughter. The kind that surprises you and leaves your face sore afterward. The kind that happens in cars, kitchens, hotel rooms, and moments that were never planned. Laughter has a way of reminding you that life still exists beyond appointments, scans, and worry.

I am thankful for my husband. For his patience. For his steadiness. For loving me through every version of myself this year. The tired one. The anxious one. The hopeful one. The frustrated one. The grateful one. Loving someone through illness is not romantic in the way people imagine. It is practical. It is daily. It is showing up even when neither of you has answers. I do not take that for granted.

I am thankful for family. For arguments that end in love. For support that does not always look perfect but is real. For the reminder that no matter how independent I think I am, I am still deeply connected to the people who shaped me.

I am thankful for purpose. For JohnVsGBM. For the community that exists because of honesty, not optimism. Because of shared fear, shared strength, and shared understanding. I never set out to be inspirational. I set out to be real. The fact that others see themselves in that is something I hold with humility.

This year, I built things. I wrote things. I shared things that once felt too raw to say out loud. I learned that vulnerability is not weakness. It is truth without armor. And truth has a way of connecting people more deeply than any polished message ever could.

I am thankful for the people who reached out. The emails. The messages. The quiet acknowledgments that said, I see you. Sometimes that was enough to carry me through a hard day.

I am thankful for resilience, though I did not choose it. I am thankful for perspective, though it came at a cost. I am thankful for the ability to sit with uncertainty without letting it steal every ounce of peace I have left.

And now, as Christmas arrives, I find myself thinking less about what I want and more about what I hope for others.

My Christmas wish is simple.

I wish for peace for those carrying silent battles. The kind no one sees and few ask about.

I wish for comfort for those grieving, especially those who feel pressure to be cheerful this time of year when their hearts are heavy.

I wish for patience for caregivers who are tired beyond words and still show up every day.

I wish for relief for anyone waiting on results, answers, or clarity that feels just out of reach.

I wish for presence. For people to put down expectations and simply be where they are, with who they have, right now.

I wish for permission. Permission to rest. Permission to say no. Permission to not be okay. Permission to enjoy moments without guilt.

I wish for moments of joy that sneak up on you when you least expect them.

I wish for softness in a world that often feels sharp.

And most of all, I wish for hope. Not the loud, performative kind. The quiet kind that sits beside you and says, keep going, even if you do not know exactly where you are headed yet.

This Christmas, I am not wishing for more. I am honoring what already exists.

If you are reading this, know that you are not alone, even when it feels that way. Whatever this year has asked of you, you survived it. That matters.

May this season be gentle with you.

And may your Christmas wish, whatever it is, find its way to you in the coming year.