The First Cut
Thanksgiving felt like a milestone this year. It was the first one Greg and I have hosted in our new home since moving in a year ago. There was something grounding about having everyone gathered around our table.
It wasn’t picture-perfect, it was just real life. I moved between the kitchen and the living room, checking on dishes, making sure everyone was comfortable, catching up with family, keeping an eye on Alexander, and hoping the day felt special for everyone who walked through the door. It was full in that familiar holiday way: meaningful, lively, and nonstop.
Family stayed with us for a couple of nights afterward, and the house took on that lived-in energy I love: kids running around, conversations lingering, the fire pit going outside, cinnamon buns the next morning. And then, when everyone left on Saturday, there was this soft shift. The house was still. And I felt myself exhale in a way I didn’t realize I needed. Not a big moment, just a human one. The kind where your body catches up with your heart.
Later that day, we drove out to chop down our first Christmas tree— Greg, Alexander, my mom and me. The air was cold and the sun was shining, the kind of crispness that wakes you up from the inside out. Alexander wore his Pikachu hat with the floppy ears, and he moved through the trees with a quiet confidence.
He found the tree he wanted quickly, almost immediately. “This is it! This is my tree! It’s perfect.” He dropped to his knees, Greg handed him the saw, and he began cutting with so much determination. The first few pulls came easily. And then effort arrived. His breathing slowed. His shoulders tightened. Finally, he looked up and said, “Mama… can you help me?”
My instinct was immediate. I leaned forward, ready to take over— ready to make it easier for him, the way I’ve done so many times in so many moments of his life. Before I could grab the saw, Greg caught my eye and said quietly, “He can do it.”
I felt a tightening in my chest. Not helping felt, in its own way, like ignoring his need. But I also knew — in that deep, parent place — that if I stepped in too quickly, I would take away the very moment that builds resilience. So I knelt beside him, placed a hand on his back, and said gently, “You can do this. I’m here.”
He took a breath. Then another. He looked frustrated and disappointed.
He begrudgingly took a few more pulls.
And then — the trunk broke, and the tree tipped softly onto the ground.
He looked up at me with pride. The kind that comes from effort, not ease. The kind that shows you, in real time, how children grow — not just taller, but inwardly stronger. And in a subtle way, something in me shifted too.
I’ve been thinking about that moment ever since, and how much parenting asks us to slow down internally even while life keeps moving around us. How the pace we choose becomes its own form of ritual.
Ritual has been on my mind lately—not the elaborate kind, but the simple, sustainable practices that create steadiness in a season that can so easily pull us in a dozen directions. My own rituals right now are small but grounding: gentle movement each morning, mobility work that brings me back into my body, breathing practices that soften the noise in my mind. Nothing fancy. Just things that help me return to myself. They are a practice, they are ritual and they are necessary for me to show up as the best version of myself.
And the ritual I’m craving most (and also the one that feels hard to write)?
Quiet time alone with no plan and no one needing anything from me. Just a bit of space to hear my own thoughts without rushing to the next thing. Even naming that feels like an honest step toward honoring it.
As December unfolds, I’m trying to let ritual guide me — not the aspirational kind, but the human kind. The kind that lives inside messy, meaningful, ordinary days, like a random Tuesday. The kind that invites you to slow down long enough to feel your own presence again.
Maybe that’s the real point of ritual: a gentle returning, again and again, to yourself.
If you’re looking for simple, grounding practices to support you through this season, I share weekly tools and rituals inside my newsletter — things that are doable in real life and help create a little more steadiness in the weeks ahead.
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Loved this :)
This, this small and profound moment — and your awareness of it. Bless you all.