A BRUTALLY HONEST CHRISTMAS LETTER – WITH NO REGRETS

I stood on the cold laminate flooring in our 1940s ranch home in the Midwest. I was feeling particularly “grinchy” this year. My son, then 3, had recently had four minor surgeries and the recovery was going very, very, very badly. It felt as though I hadn’t slept in nearly eight months, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to carry on with this life I’d carefully constructed.

I wrestled with feeling both blessed beyond measure and simultaneously feeling absolutely depleted. My husband’s first year of graduate school finals were underway, so he had crept out in the early morning, and I found myself making breakfast when my first Christmas card of the year arrived at my doorstep.

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