The Christmas Letter

This year, I sent out my first Christmas letter.

That might not sound like much. People do it all the time. But if you know anything about my story—about how life smacked me in the face the moment I left my parents’ house and handed me a bill I had no idea how to pay—then you know that being able to do something as simple as buy Christmas cards, pay for postage, and actually send them out? That’s a milestone. That’s me finally being in a place where I can participate in the normal adult rituals I’ve watched other people do for years.

It was a one-page letter. Just a fun, light-hearted recap of our year. Hubby and I are a married couple with no children and no pets, so I wanted to do something different—something that said, hey, we’re still here, we’re still us, and here’s what we’ve been up to. Hubby got to purchase a motorcycle this year, which has been a lifelong dream of his. I started the infamous white woman sourdough journey. I began a healthy journey and learned a lot along the way. We moved to a different part of Georgia, about two and a half hours from where we used to live, further from friends and family but closer to something new. And I started this blog.

In the letter, I mentioned the blog. I thought it was a cute gesture—an invitation for people who cared to come visit this little corner of the internet I’ve been building.

The Feedback

Most of the feedback was warm. People responded to the vulnerability in the pieces I’d written, especially the harder ones about infertility and loss. It meant more than I can say to know those words landed somewhere, that someone felt less alone because I’d been brave enough to share.

But not all of it was warm.

One person—let’s call him Frank—read the blog and had a strong reaction. At first, I think his heart was in the right place. He felt empathy, maybe even related to some of what I’d shared. But somewhere in the conversation, it turned. He couldn’t understand why I would post such sensitive, personal information on the internet. He accused me of playing victim, of writing this Christmas letter just to direct people to a blog where they could feel sorry for me.

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I responded perfectly. I didn’t. I got angry. I sat up in my chair and asked him if he had a problem with my blog. Things escalated. Words were said that shouldn’t have been—on both sides. I even posted screenshots on Instagram, which, in hindsight, was childish and petty. I’m in my thirties. I know better. But in that moment, I was hurt and defensive, and I reacted.

A few days later, Frank called to apologize. We had a calm conversation, and I got the chance to ask him something that had been bothering me: Did you actually read the blog? Not just skim it—but really read it?

I asked him if he’d read “What is a Mother Without Children,” the allegory that seems to have caught his attention. If he’d read “Tending,” the companion piece I wrote as a follow-up to soften it. If he’d read the Author’s Note I posted the very next day, where I dropped the allegory entirely and spoke directly—no metaphors, no fictional framing, just me explaining what I’d been through and why I wrote it the way I did.

He admitted he hadn’t.

I encouraged him to go back and read them. Because if he had, he would have seen that I wasn’t just sitting there playing victim. I was a human being processing a real experience in real time. Yes, the first piece is intense. It’s long. It’s deep. The allegory isn’t light. But I followed it up intentionally—first with “Tending,” which softens the edges, and then with the Author’s Note, where I make it clear: Jesus is the one carrying me through this. He gets the credit. This is a hard experience, but He’s the reason I have peace. He’s the reason I can even write about it at all.

I’m not going to rehash all of that here. If you’re curious, you can go back and read those pieces for yourself. But I wanted to be clear about what actually happened—and what Frank missed by reacting before he understood.

I forgave him. We reconciled. He’s one of Hubby’s nicest friends, and I’d like to keep him around. Grace is messy like that.

What This Space Is

But the whole thing made me think about what this space actually is and why it exists.

Here’s the thing: my blog felt like a sacred space. And now it’s been seen in a way that feels exposing. For a moment, I wondered if I should have just kept it quiet—let it exist for strangers to stumble upon instead of inviting people I actually know into it.

But I’m still here. Still talking. Because this is what this space is for.

This isn’t social media. Hubby and I aren’t really big on that anymore. Every once in a while—we’re talking maybe every six months—we’ll post a photo or an update if something major happens. But even that feels less and less authentic as the years go on. Social media is a highlight reel. It’s a fake world where you post the good stuff and inadvertently make everyone else feel bad about their lives. We all know that’s not how real life works.

This blog is different. This is my corner of the internet—one I pay rent on, by the way. I pay for the web hosting. I pay for the tools my neurodivergent brain needs to make this work. And let me tell you how I actually write these posts: I’m not sitting here typing like some cool, polished author. I’m talking into a microphone. The computer translates what I’m saying into a document, and then I run it through grammar tools to clean it up and make the sentences flow. I’m literally just speaking to you the way I would speak to a friend on the phone. A gal pal, if you will.

Because that’s who I am. I’m an overexplainer. I’m a talker. I’m a deep thinker with big feelings who needs to process things out loud. I need to talk things through. And this blog gives me a place to do that without blowing up people’s Facebook feeds with emotional drama about a life they didn’t ask to hear about. If you want to be here, you’ll keep coming back. If not, that’s okay too.

Why I Refuse to Hide

But there’s a deeper reason I do this.

As Christians, we try to do the right thing. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the best at it. I’ve done things the Christian community would frown upon. I already know people don’t always look at me in the most positive light. But one thing I’ve noticed is that sometimes the people quickest to tell you that you’re not being a good Christian are the same ones berating you, harassing you, and tearing you down. Meanwhile, you’re just standing there thinking, I was really just trying to be nice. I thought maybe we could all be friends.

I’m not 100% proud of everything I’ve done. But I know I’ve asked the Lord’s forgiveness. I know that Jesus died on the cross for me and paid the price for the horrible things I’ve done, so that I can have a bridge to the Heavenly Father and one day spend eternity with Him in paradise.

And I think living on this earth is about being as authentic as you can. Not hiding the dirty things you’ve done. Because when you hide—when you keep your mouth shut because you’re ashamed of being a dirty person who’s done dirty, bad things—that’s when the enemy wins. He keeps you in shame and bondage and guilt. He keeps you bound.

I refuse to live that way. I have lived that way.

Looking Ahead

So here we are. January 2026. The future is looking bright. Big things are happening this year for our family—things I’m not quite ready to share yet. One day, I’d like to write you the story of how we got to this point. But I’m not ready for the full presentation.

First, I want to go back. Tell you some of the stories that shaped me. Help you understand where I came from so that when I finally show you where I’m going, it makes sense. You’ll understand who I am and why I am the way I am.

And the best part about being an overexplainer with a good microphone and software I’ve already paid for? I can just talk. And talk. And talk.

So here’s my question for you: What do you want to hear?

Do you want more allegories—the kind where I wrap hard truths in metaphor and let you sit with them? Or do you want the real, unfiltered truth—no fictional framing, just me telling you exactly what happened?

And here’s another one: Do you want to hear about the times I was the villain, or the times I was the victim? Because life is all about balance. Sometimes I’m one, sometimes I’m the other. I’ve got stories for both.

Let me know. I’m not going anywhere.

Oh, and Frank? If you’re reading this—hi. I’m not being mean. I’m just sharing. This is what I do. We still love you, and we’re sorry you thought we sent that Christmas card just to make you feel sorry for us. That was never the point. But hey, now you know where to find the full story.