The ornament broke this year.
One of the tiny angel wings—from the first ornament my mom ever gave me—fell off as I lifted it from the storage box.
I sat on the floor, ornament in hand, and felt my throat tighten. It’s wild how quickly joy can turn into tears and how memory collapses time and place, bringing someone you love right back into the room.
Every December while I was growing up, my mother created what felt like pure magic.
Ordinary objects disappeared from the windows, replaced with glittery snowflakes. She wrapped pictures on the wall in metallic paper. And my dad, braving the Chicago winter, climbed a ladder to hang lights on the enormous tree in our front yard—tall enough to be seen from the Eisenhower Expressway.
My favorite part? Once a year, we moved the couch to make room for the Christmas tree. It was the only time the couch faced the TV, which meant I could lie down and watch The Grinch instead of sitting on the hard floor.
Fast forward to today, and I’ve spent my adult life trying to recreate that same sense of magic in my own home.
Each year, when I unpack the ornaments, I’m met with memories of people who’ve loved me across decades. But one ornament always brings me to tears. My mom gave it to me when I moved into my first apartment—a tiny pincushion with an angel on it, adorned with a thimble and wings. She taught me to sew, and we even worked together at a fabric store before I went to college. I adored that ornament.
This year, when I opened the box, one of the wings had fallen off and joined the lost arm I’d cried over years ago. I tried to glue it again, but it’s beyond repair.
In an instant, joy dissolved into tears. My rational mind whispered, “It’s just an object; let it go.” My heart ached with missing her. My soul clung to that tiny ornament as a portal to her presence.
Then I judged myself for crying. I felt irritated that I had “ruined” my mood and my holiday spirit by letting something so small undo me. I watched myself swing from delight to sorrow with a velocity I didn’t expect.
What I’m learning is that difficult emotions can sit right next to joy. Grief doesn’t wait for its turn. It doesn’t ask permission. It can quietly be there in the corner even when life feels sparkly. For years, I believed grief crowded everything else out. But that’s not how emotions work. When we soften and make a little space around what we feel, there’s room for all of it.
It’s not always pleasant. I don’t want to feel grief while decorating the tree. But it’s there.
Poet and philosopher Mark Nepo writes, “To be broken is no reason to see all things as broken. The light is still moving through the cracks.”
Losing my mom felt like my heart shattered into pieces that could never be put back together. I feel the loss of my parents every day, especially during the holidays. After my mom died, it took months before anything besides grief could make its way in.
Then one night, I dreamed she came to me to say she was okay. I felt her so vividly—her hand wrapped around mine—that when I woke, my hand was still lifted in the air, holding hers.
The next day, something shifted. I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. And immediately, tears followed. In that moment, I understood what it is to hold sorrow and joy in the same breath.
Artist and writer Kahlil Gibran wrote, “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”
For now, the broken ornament sits on my dining table with its tiny wing beside it. I haven’t found the strength—or maybe the willingness—to move it yet. And that’s okay. It feels like a small act of honoring: letting it be exactly as it is, just like I’m learning to let myself be.
As you move through December, with whatever celebrations or non-celebrations this season brings, I imagine you’ll experience your own range of emotions. Please know I’m holding you in my heart and wishing you peace, gentleness, and a field inside your chest spacious enough to hold it all. And if you need support, I’m here.
Let’s be here for each other. I’m not sure there’s a greater reason for living. If you’re struggling and need support, reach out: tina@thesoulpurpose.com
