Christmas, as It Is
A quiet Christmas story about food, family, and the ones we miss
Time off.
The roast is ready — and then life quietly changes its mind.
Someone is sick.
The house goes still.
Beds replace plans. Sleep replaces noise.
No one is hungry. The rain keeps falling, as if it knows.
I sit at the Christmas table anyway.
Decorated. Carefully set. Waiting.
On my plate: a slice of roast, some Brussels sprouts, and a few habas I threw in without thinking. It tastes good. Properly good.
But food, I realise, is only half the story.
It’s not the same by yourself.
I think of my mum.
How Christmas, for her, was never just a date — it was an act of love.
Food planned days in advance. Dishes that carried memory. A table that meant together, no matter what the year had been.
She made sure we gathered.
She made sure we ate.
She made sure we belonged.
Not having her here hurts in a quiet, aching way — the kind that doesn’t announce itself, but sits with you.
In the empty chair.
In the extra food.
In the traditions that still exist, but feel lighter than they used to.
This Christmas isn’t loud.
It isn’t full.
It isn’t how I imagined it would be.
But it is real.
And maybe that’s what so many of us are holding this year — Christmas as it actually is, not as it’s supposed to be.
A mix of love and loss.
Warm food and cold absences.
Gratitude tangled with grief.
Memories, in the end, are what we carry forward.
They sit with us at the table.
They season the food.
They remind us that love once lived loudly here — and still does, just differently.
If you’re reading this from a quieter table than expected, you’re not alone.
If someone is missing, they matter.
If today feels uneven, it still counts.
May this Christmas be gentle with you.
May it hold you — exactly as you are.
