Everyone wants a picture-perfect Hallmark movie Christmas, right? The house decorated inside and out, ready to win the neighborhood light-display prize. Right?
But what we conveniently forget are the parts of the movie where the main couple has a dramatic breakup, or Grandma gets rushed to the hospital because she’s winded and everyone fears her heart is giving out. Turns out, not every holiday moment is destined to become a cherished memory—some simply mark the years in quieter, messier ways.

I grew up adoring Christmas because my mother did, and she passed that magic straight down to me. So when I became a mom, I went all in. I took my kids to the city to see elaborate store windows, hotel-lobby displays dripping in garlands and giant gingerbread houses, and we’d see at least one Christmas show. We loved ice skating and having hot cocoa with marshmallows afterward. We’d find a bench, wrap ourselves in a couple of warm blankets, and watch others skate past us as we sipped some glorious liquid chocolate gold.

When my oldest was four, we added Hanukkah into our family celebrations—I have Jewish heritage, even though I wasn’t raised in the religion. (That story is for another time.) I got a proper menorah; we lit candles, spun dreidels, devoured chocolate gelt, and ate latkes that made the whole house smell like delicious, warm fried comfort.

But here’s the part Hallmark never shows you: seasons shift. Bodies shift. Lives shift. Parkinson’s has slowly tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Hey… maybe don’t climb on the stepstool with that box of ornaments.”

And honestly? It has a point.

Parkinson’s makes everything more effortful now. Energy shows up in limited batches, my memory is more slippery, and my thoughts are slower to assemble—sometimes even my sense of what day it is evades me. Even conversation can be a challenge on some days because my focus or my speech falters. And with medications five times a day, my schedule revolves around what my body needs—not what the season demands. The holidays didn’t stop being meaningful; they just ask different things of me now—more gentleness, more pacing, and a willingness to accept when my brain and my body aren’t quite on the same festive page.

So the holidays have gotten smaller, quieter, and kinder in response. I’ve traded the production-level decorating for something more sustainable, more grounded, and more real. I’m no longer decorating for Hallmark. I’m decorating for me—for what my body can do, for what still brings me ease and warmth, and for the little pockets of sparkle that show up quietly, as if whispering, “This is enough.”

It’s bittersweet, yes. I miss parts of the old bustle. But I’m also discovering new ways the season delights me—ways that don’t involve putting out every ornament, every holiday knickknack, or baking cookies daily. It doesn’t matter if I get every present on my son’s or daughter’s wish list. We don’t need fresh cookies every day—honestly, not even at all. There’s a lovely selection at the store just waiting to come home and sit proudly in your cookie jar.

If I can’t ice skate anymore but still love cocoa and the magic of watching my family glide (or wobble) around the rink, I can sit rink-side with a thermos and warm them up when the skates come off. If dragging myself to a big theatrical holiday show isn’t in the cards, I can have family members pick a favorite holiday movie and present that instead. And if strolling through downtown to see elaborate store windows is too much,  we hop in the car and take a slow cruise through the neighborhood to enjoy the lights right outside our door.

The holidays changed. And so did I. But there’s still beauty here. Still humor. Still light—just fewer extension cords.