When One Strand Goes Dark

A reflection on Christmas, kids, and the quiet way seasons change

I’m getting ready to take our Christmas tree down.

At some point this season, the top strand of lights burned out. I’m not sure exactly when it happened. Maybe two weeks ago. I noticed it, registered it, and then… kept going.

The tree didn’t suddenly feel sad or ugly. The bottom half still glows the way it always does. The ornaments are all there. The star on top is still lit. But the light is softer now. Uneven. A little quieter.

And honestly, it feels about right.

This Christmas felt different. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “everything has changed” way. Just… different. The house wasn’t quieter. If anything, it was louder. Three kids home from Florida between the 19th and the 28th meant more bodies, more noise, more comings and goings than usual. Jobs. School. Other families. People coming in late and heading out early. It was busy.

What felt different wasn’t the noise — it was the pressure.

I’ve always struggled with Christmas a little. Not the meaning of it… the doing of it. The rules. The expectations. The invisible checklist that says the tree must be fresh cut, the cookies must include Russian tea and sugar and Buckeyes and Toll House and gingerbread, whether or not anyone actually wants to eat them. Gift cards aren't personal enough, but don't spend money on something someone might not love and use forever. Traditions upheld not because they bring joy, but because breaking them feels almost sacrilegious.

This year, some traditions showed up, not because I forced them to, but because the kids wanted them and made them happen. Cinnamon buns appeared without me lifting a finger. Other things have faded out or quietly disappeared over the years, without any big announcement that they were finished.

That part of the human condition never ceases to surprise me.

There’s something about life — and especially about kids — where you don’t always know you’re in a “last” until it’s already gone. You don’t get a warning label. You just look back one day and realize something ended without ceremony.

I thought about that when my dad died. When I was living at home, into my teens, I used to kiss the top of his bald head and say goodnight when I went up to bed, him in his recliner, watching TV. In that moment as we prepared to close the coffin, it hit me, I will never kiss that head again, and who even knows when the last time was? You don’t mark it. You don’t celebrate it. It just slips past.

It’s the same with kids. The last time they grab your hand crossing the street. The last midnight wake-up, the last nursing session, the last dirty diaper. The last bedtime story. The lasts are quiet. They don’t announce themselves. Some you might celebrate, others you might mourn.

This year, I didn’t decorate the way I once did. I didn’t pull out every tote or recreate every moment just because that’s how it’s always been done. Part of that was low energy. Part of it was honesty. And part of it was realizing I don’t need to prove anything to make the season meaningful. And it was good.

The glow was still there — just gentler. Less about production. More about presence. We called in Jersey Mike’s for one family party. Pizza for another. Chinese food on Christmas Day (like always! One tradition, instituted by my dad for the sake of enjoying the kids at Christmas!). More games and cards. More hot tub trips. Happy hour with my 21-year-old. Classic movies on the TV where you can come and go without missing anything.

The kids drifted in and out. Sometimes together. Sometimes one-on-one. And there was something really beautiful about letting the moments that worked work, instead of forcing the ones that didn’t.

Standing in front of that half-lit tree, it struck me that this is how seasons actually move. Not all at once. Not with a clean break. Some parts stay bright. Others dim quietly. And you don’t always know which strand is going to go dark until you’re already looking at it.

As I take the tree down, I’m not rushing toward what comes next. I’m just letting this version of Christmas finish the way it wants to… softly, without fanfare.

Next year there will be new lights. Maybe a fresh-cut tree. Or maybe my husband and I will trade our Black Friday Christmas tree hill climb for a hike somewhere else and let an artificial tree take its place. The shape of things will shift again.

For now, I’m okay with the glow exactly as it is.