Feeling the Season, Not Just Managing It

This time of year comes wrapped in glitter, tradition, and nostalgia—and often, a heavy dose of pressure. Holidays can be beautiful, but they also stir up emotions we think we’ve tucked neatly away: grief, longing, guilt, anticipation, and the hope that maybe this year we’ll finally “do it right.” We move through the season trying to keep up—hosting, baking, planning, remembering—yet often forgetting to feel.

But here’s the truth: emotions don’t disappear just because we push them to the side. They wait. And eventually, they find their way out.

Imagine baking your family’s favorite cookies. You hear your grandmother’s voice reminding you to set the timer so they don’t burn—just like she did every year—and suddenly there’s joy and grief sitting side by side. But there’s still cleaning to finish, guests arriving early, decorations to complete, dinner that needs to be perfect. You push through. Until, without meaning to, you snap, or tear up at the wrong moment, or feel disconnected from the joy right in front of you. That’s what happens when our feelings don’t get a place to land.

Staying connected and present doesn’t mean being perfectly calm or composed. It means allowing your body the time it needs to process what’s actually happening. Here are a few tiny shifts that help:

1. Pause
When you notice yourself rushing, stop for just a moment. Feel your feet. Relax your shoulders. Name what you're experiencing.

2. Breathe with intention
Take one slow inhale, then let your exhale leave your body slower than it entered. Let your system catch up with your heart.

3. Let your senses anchor you
Smell the cookies. Feel the dough. Taste something slowly. Notice the glow in someone’s eyes when they unwrap something they love.

Your body is already holding the wisdom you need. When you give yourself permission to feel—even briefly—you stay connected to the moment rather than racing past it. That’s how presence becomes pleasure, even in the fullness of the holidays.

When Curiosity Led the Way

When I was a kid, I lived in trees. Not just near them—in them. My dad hammered a little board between two branches, and that was my throne. I’d climb up with scratched shins and messy hair and sit for hours—legs dangling, fingers exploring the grooves in the bark. I watched tiny beetles crawl along their highways, pausing to let them cross my hand if they wandered that direction. I wasn’t afraid of their tiny feet or the dirt they left behind.

I was curious.

Back then, curiosity led me without effort. I didn’t question whether something was silly, embarrassing, or productive. I didn’t need permission to linger on something that fascinated me. I simply followed what felt good.

Children live inside their bodies. They aren’t thinking about their to-do lists, their professional titles, or whether someone might judge them for being too joyful or too expressive. They just experience. Fully, shamelessly, and with wonder.

Years later, when my wife and I were dating, she took me to a lookout point in Kansas City where you can see the whole skyline sparkling across the river. To get there, we walked past an empty playground. A merry-go-round sat under a buzzing streetlight, leaning slightly like it had spun through decades of childhood laughter.

I grabbed the bar without thinking and started running beside it, pushing it faster and faster. Life was heavy at the time—medical news, transitions, loss, uncertainty. But that spinning—fast and loud and breathless—felt wild and freeing.

I yelled for her to jump on. We lay back, spinning under the stars, dizzy and laughing in a way that felt ancient and familiar.

And in that moment, I remembered.

I remembered what it felt like to exist only in the present—no self-consciousness, no weight on my chest, no thought about what comes next. Just a body spinning, laughing, breathing, feeling.

We often forget that we are still that child. We still need awe. We still need silliness. We still need moments that let our bodies lead.

And the beautiful thing is—we no longer have to wait for someone to take us to the park. We get to choose it for ourselves.

Curiosity doesn’t disappear with age. Joy doesn’t expire.

Sometimes, we just have to reach out, grab the bar, and start spinning again.