Surviving My Worst Christmas Ever
Reflections on love, loss, and the moments that quietly change everything.
Fifteen years ago today—on the Sunday before Christmas—I moved out of the home I shared with my ex-fiancé after our engagement ended.
It was the end of a relationship, hopes, and dreams.
The end of my home.
The end of my twenties.
It was one of the hardest days of my life.
At the time, I couldn’t see it as anything other than an ending—total, disorienting, and devastating. The loss wasn’t singular, it was layered.
That kind of ending changes you.
Four years later, in December of 2014, on a quiet afternoon, while decorating my little Christmas tree, something unexpected happened.
Elvis’ Blue Christmas was playing in the background. I was half-singing along, half-lost in thought, when the lyrics suddenly hit me. The longing. The ache beneath the melody.
And just like that, I had a flashback to four years earlier, to that same weekend before Christmas. To the exact day I had moved out. The anniversary hit me all at once.
I remember standing there, stunned by the symmetry of it. By how deeply that moment still lived in me. By how far I’d come.
So, I sat down and wrote.
What came out became the most vulnerable, raw blog I’ve ever shared. It was difficult. It was scary. I hesitated before publishing it. But I felt compelled, because I knew others were dealing with their own holiday heartbreak.
I wanted others to feel less alone.
To feel understood.
To have a little hope.
So I shared it anyway.
And today, fifteen years after the ending that started it all, I can see just how pivotal it was in shaping the beautiful work I would eventually do in the world.
That devastating ending in 2010 was necessary, and it became an origin point.
The end that was my true beginning.
It felt right to launch this Substack here. On this anniversary. At the end.
If you’re curious—or if this season feels tender for you too, you can read my blog “My Worst Christmas Ever” here.
And here, I’ll be writing reflections like this: about love, heartbreak, endings, and the quiet, human work of becoming ourselves over time.
