It's the "Christmas" season, and it feels different this year. Not in a loud, obvious way. In a quiet, almost unsettling way. Growing up, I always knew we would end up at my aunt's house and we'd swing by my Papa's house. Simple. Familiar. It came with an understanding of where I’d be—home with the family. My world was small but steady. As I got older, the focus became the kids, the house, and usually gifts for the kiddos Just a gesture that said, "Merry Christmas" with love. Now people ask, “What are you doing for the holidays?” And that question hits harder than it should. Because the honest answer is… I don’t know. Zoé was born in December and spent time in the NICU. Her 1st Christmas was in the NICU and I had a hard time splitting my attention between opening gifts with the family and wanting to get to her incubator and sit with her.... This year, she's 12 and I feel like I'm right back in that moment of what do I do for Christmas.... there’s no assumed rhythm. No Grandmommie or Papa. No shared moment with my first cousins that says, we still know each other in this way. Instead, there’s space. And space is emotional. It forces you to notice what’s missing. It makes you realize how much of your identity was wrapped up in times long passed. This year I've said I'm a Scrooge... we're not really celebrating. The tree is up but not decorated and that's not usually me. This year isn’t different because something bad is happening. It’s emotional because I'm acknowledging that something ended. And with it, the version of holidays I was used to. It's been slowly happening for 12 years.... But here’s the truth I’m leaning into: different doesn’t mean worse. It just means unfinished. This holiday isn’t about plans or parties. It’s about acknowledging that I’m standing in a transition. I’m allowed to feel a way. I’m also allowed to imagine a future where this season looks like something I want to take part in—not something that just happens around me. So if Christmas is quiet, that’s okay. I just have to convince my kids and grandkids.....

It doesn’t happen overnight. One day you’re passionate full of ideas, staying late because you care. Then slowly, the spark fades. The joy turns into pressure. The purpose turns into routine. And the work that once gave you life starts to quietly drain it out of you. You still show up, still smile, still say “I’m okay.” But deep down, you know something’s changed. It’s not that you stopped loving the work you just got tired of doing it in an environment that forgot how to care. Burnout doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it just whispers, “Hang in there,” every morning before you clock in. And maybe that’s your sign not to give up, but to find a space where your passion feels safe again. Because you deserve more than survival. You deserve to feel alive in what you do.