I used to dread this time of year. It felt like a countdown to the stark reminder of how life had let me down. I’d force myself to travel home and feign excitement about the holidays in the hopes I could keep the sadness hidden. But, the Christmas of 2014, it all became too much.

That year, I was 35. Up until being diagnosed with breast cancer at age 30, I had always pictured starting a family in my thirties. Instead, I was single and still working through the aftermath of cancer. Meanwhile, my two sisters-in-law were both beautifully pregnant, my sister’s kids were underfoot, and it felt like every time I turned around, I would see a moment of affection or connection between significant others, including my parents who talked about how lucky they were to be celebrating 45 years of marriage that year. 

After the flurry of baby presents and swapping of ultrasound photos, I sat in darkness bundled up in a blanket on the twin bed of a cluttered guest room and couldn’t stop the tears from dripping down my face to pool on my sweater. 

Christmas 1979

That night, something inside me broke. The clock was ticking towards the deadline to decide on removing my fallopian tubes, a move my doctors were urging to reduce my risk for ovarian cancer, but also one that would make it impossible for me to ever become pregnant naturally. It was also becoming clear that my dream of continuing to build the nonprofit I founded, A Fresh Chapter, would make it hard to follow the kind of traditional family path I had imagined. For the first time, I realized I couldn’t keep hoping that next Christmas, my life would be different. On that cold night in Northern Canada, I had to face the reality that I might never have the Christmas experiences I had dreamed of since the days of pretending my doll was my baby who I rocked to sleep before Santa arrived. I also would likely never have the kind of family my siblings had. The pain of this epiphany felt like a gaping wound and I couldn’t keep dousing it with salt. 

I had to find a way to live in contradiction. To acknowledge that I love my family, but it’s too painful to spend Christmas with them. 

Like most of us, I grew up believing that life should be easy and everything should work out. We should be happy. People shouldn’t hurt us. We shouldn’t get sick or face a divorce, death, or any other significant loss in our lives. 

This kind of thinking is part of being human, but finding true resilience and joy means acknowledging and accepting the contradictions in life. It’s ok to love someone and feel frustrated simultaneously. It’s ok to feel our difficult emotions of anger, sadness, and fear, while also recognizing our resilience and finding moments to lean into joy and gratitude. 

It was ok for me to find my own way. 

So I stopped. I stopped trying to be the perfect daughter or the perfect aunt and I decided to redefine Christmas for myself. I decided to find other opportunities and times of the year to invest my time, air miles, and heart into my family.

Even though my decision initially hurt feelings and ruffled feathers, we have found new traditions. I now visit my family before official holidays and instead, spend Christmas hiking with friends in California or cooking dinner for other people who feel a little lost and alone over the holidays. The past two weekends, I traveled to different parts of British Columbia to fit in as much quality time as I could with my three siblings, their partners, and their beautiful chaotic families. I soaked in the memories of catching my niece as she took her first steps, baking cookies, storytimes, long walks in the snow, delicious meals, and laughter. 

And, even though it still sometimes hurts my heart to be in the thick of a family unit and be reminded I don’t have my own, I have learned to be ok with the contradiction. Amidst the chaos, I can feel equally sad and grateful for the silence in my life. I can grieve the loss of motherhood while feeling incredibly grateful for the way I get to nurture others through AFC. 

Whatever your situation is – whether you’re an exhausted parent of small children and some peace and quiet sounds like a dream or you’re facing other challenges or loneliness this holiday season, can you let yourself off the hook and acknowledge however you’re feeling? Perhaps even find a little peace amidst the contradictions? We don’t have to be all one thing. We can grieve and find moments of joy. We can be exhausted and grateful. We can be content and scared about what might happen in the future. We can take care of ourselves while still choosing how we invest in the people we love. 

It’s messy and beautiful and complicated and for me, I have come to realize that it’s all ok exactly the way it is.