home for the holidays
for those navigating loss, change, and the silent spaces of the holidays.
side note: growing up, I realized the holidays are only as special as my mom makes them. in my absence, the weight of life has made it harder for her to stay afloat. as deteriorating health dims her light, the holiday magic fades with it. I wrote this piece to capture the struggle of living between two lives and coming home to realize that everything has changed and carried on without you.
sending you all extra love this season.
Home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
The rooms are familiar, but they don’t welcome me back. My favorite food isn’t waiting in the fridge. My sheets, once fresh and soft, now carry the weight of months untouched. The bathroom shelves are empty, my pink bottles of shampoo and lotion replaced by my brother’s things. Even my toothbrush is gone, as if the house decided to move on without me.
My closet is bare, hangers rattling like brittle reminders of how much I’ve taken away and how little I’ve left behind. I unpack my suitcase, though it feels pointless. I know the days will slip by in a blur, plans with everyone but me taking up the hours. I came home with so much—knit sweaters, two pairs of jeans, three coats, a silk skirt, books left unread, and a wishlist of moments to capture— but now it all feels like excess.
Routines have shifted like tectonic plates. Dinner isn’t a shared ritual anymore; everyone has their own schedule, heads bowed over their screens. The table is dusty, crumbs lingering like forgotten promises. The TV blares into the silence, but no one watches. Conversations are brief, clipped, or avoided altogether—every sentence a potential spark for old arguments.
There are fewer chairs at the table this year. The absence is loud, a haunting echo of holidays past when we were all laughing and sharing stories. Loss hangs heavy in the air, and though no one speaks of it we all feel it. My brother’s chair remains, but he’s not in it. All grown up without me, living a life that barely intersects with mine anymore.
My birthday passed just before finals week, barely acknowledged by my family. No flowers, no cake with candles, no moment to feel like it mattered. Our distance became even more apparent when the Facetime ended. They asked me what I wanted but didn’t really listen. I opened gifts that didn’t feel like me, though I smiled and said thank you. I am grateful, I swear, but gratitude doesn’t erase the ache of being misunderstood. The one person who made it special wasn’t even family—it was him. A birthday spent studying, miles away from family with the only man that made any effort to make it special.
I had to buy my own groceries again. A painful reminder that my preferences are no longer on the family shopping list.
I made my family dinner for the first time. My parents took pictures of the spread, proud and smiling, but the moment passed like steam dissipating from a plate. The picture doesn’t capture the dissonance. We ate in silence. I filled the void with stories of my life away from them—school, finals, the silently spoken fear of not making them proud—but my words felt hollow, already heard. I’m doing this for them but the thought tastes bitter.
The phone rang mid-meal. They answered. Fifteen minutes later, they came back to the table. The food was cold.
I look around and see the cracks in everything: the arguments before my arrival that hang heavy in the air, the exhaustion etched into my mother’s face, the empty chairs where our loved ones used to sit. Even when we try to come together, the gaps between us feel insurmountable.
I lay awake in the stillness, trying to understand when this rift began. Was it when I left? Did my absence create this hollow space, or was it always there, waiting to make itself known?
I miss the freedom of my own space, the comfort of being far enough away to avoid being caught in the web of family drama. But then I miss this too, the chaos of it all, even as it breaks my heart. The truth is, I live between two places now, never fully belonging to either.
I thought the holidays would anchor me to the feeling of warmth and magic. Instead, they’ve become a season of empty chairs, unfinished conversations, and unmet expectations.
The love is there—I know it is—but it’s stretched thin, like thread pulled taut. And in its absence, I’ve learned what it feels like to be loved differently, more deeply, by someone who sees me in ways they never could.
I fold the clothes I won’t wear, close the suitcase I never fully unpacked. I whisper goodnight to a house that feels more like a ghost, and I prepare to leave.
Again.
thank you for reading!
leave your thoughts on the holiday season in the comments.
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Reading this I could feel the acheness that could never detach from me, us ... 🙌💙💌