The world puts on a show this time of year.

Everywhere you look, there are pictures of magical holidays — smiling families in matching pajamas, perfectly decorated homes, packed calendars, traditions passed down effortlessly like heirlooms.

It’s beautiful…and for a lot of us, it’s also incredibly painful.

Because many of us didn’t grow up with that.

Many of us don’t have that now.

We were handed down trauma instead.

Silence.

Dysfunction.

Manipulation.

And as mothers, we carry the heavy, quiet ache of trying to create a childhood we never had.

I feel it every year — the tug of “I wish it were different,” mixed with the weight

of “it’s all on me to make this magical.”

I find myself touching my phone less during this season,

not wanting to scroll through the highlight reels of other people’s holidays.

Not because I’m bitter, but because it hurts.

It awakens the longing for something I never had — a safe family.

One that gathers without tension and loves without manipulation.

Looking at what everyone else has, magnifies what I didn't.

and truthfully, I desperately want that.

I want that for me,

I want that for my daughter.

And there is a strange pressure inside motherhood — this belief that WE have to create the magic, hold the emotions, shape the memories, and somehow make up for everything we never received.

Some days, being the magic feels heavy.

Uncomfortable.

Like a mantle too big for my shoulders.

But this season, God is shifting things in me.

I’m learning that I am not meant to carry this alone.

That motherhood was never designed to be the sole source of wonder, comfort, or joy.

That the traditions I didn’t inherit don’t have to be replaced by striving and perfection.

Because I don’t have to be the magic.

Jesus is.

And I can point her to Him.

I can tell her about His birth, His promise, His presence right here with us.

I can show her that Christmas is not built on matching outfits and big gatherings — but on a Savior who stepped into a broken world to bring hope and healing.

And I can let this season be slow.

Not full calendars.

Not perfect pictures.

Not forced family gatherings that leave our hearts bruised.

Slow.

Intentional.

Close.

A season where our home becomes a sanctuary — not because every moment is magical, but because it’s safe.

A season where we trade performing for peace.

A season where we let go of the pressure to recreate what we never had and allow Jesus to fill the gaps we cannot.

Because as much as I wish I could give my daughter the picture-perfect version of Christmas, I’m realizing something more important:

What she needs most isn’t a perfect holiday — it’s a present mother.

A peaceful home.

A protector of her heart.

And a guide who gently points her to Jesus.

And that… I can do.

Even in the midst of family hurt.

Even in the midst of unmet expectations.

Even in the quiet grief of what could have been.

I am finding that instead of focusing on what I can't pass down, I am learning to be joyful about what I can...

We can bake cookies together,

we can read books,

we can craft and make ornaments,

We can drink hot cocoa, drive around to see lights while singing to the God who fulfilled the promise of hope.

we can start our own traditions.

Traditions don't have to be expensive, or reliant on others. They can come from the heart, out of pure love and joy.

If this season feels tender, complicated, or not at all like what you see online,

I want you to know this:

You are not failing.

You are not alone.

You are not the only one who feels the ache beneath the twinkling lights.

You are a mother doing holy work — rebuilding, protecting, choosing peace, and learning to let Jesus carry what was never meant for your shoulders.

Let Him fill in those gaps for you Mama.

Jesus,

I pray for the mom reading this—the one who feels that familiar ache this time of year,

the one trying so hard to create something gentle and safe

while carrying her own memories, her own wounds, her own hopes.

You see her heart, Lord.

You know what she wanted the holidays to look like.

You know the hurt she’s navigating quietly.

You know the pressure she feels to make Christmas magical for her kids,

even when she never had that magic herself.

Would You meet her right there?

In the longing.

In the exhaustion.

In the in-between place where she’s trying to hold joy and grief at the same time.

Remind her that she doesn’t have to do this alone—she doesn’t have to be the whole source of wonder.

You are here.

You are near.

You are the Light in her home.

Give her wisdom in her boundaries, courage to protect her children’s hearts, and gentleness with her own.

Let her feel Your presence in the slow moments, the quiet mornings, the little traditions she’s building one piece at a time.

Bless her home with warmth. Fill her children with security. And wrap her heart in the deep truth, that she is doing holy work—even when it feels heavy.

Be her comfort.

Be her clarity.

Be her calm.

And let her feel proud of the family she’s building, the cycle she’s breaking, and the peace You’re teaching her to choose.

Amen.