This morning, everything took a thousand times more effort than normal.
My body felt heavy, like gravity had been turned up just for me. Even the simplest tasks required intention. I made myself get a few things done, figured out a couple of Christmas presents, and tried to move through the day like a functional human. But even that was a lot.
My husband picked up a real Christmas tree today. It was given to us by a local tree farm…extras they were giving away. I claimed one without hesitation, because Joshua loved real trees. Some of our sweetest memories live at the tree farm: walking through rows of evergreens, cutting one down together, laughing, and sometimes watching Joshua hug his favorite tree before deciding which one came home with us.
This evening, as we decorated the tree together (my husband, our kids, and me) it hit me.
Today is December 17.
One year ago today was the last day I heard Joshua’s voice.
The last day I spoke to him.
The last day I laughed with him.
The last day I encouraged him.
There’s something cruel about dates. They keep moving forward whether you’re ready or not. They don’t announce themselves gently. Your body just knows. And mine knew today.
Decorating the tree was beautiful and painful all at once. I thought about how much fun it always was to have Joshua around at Christmas. His presence filled the room in a way that can’t be replaced. It still does, in the quiet moments, in the memories that surface when I least expect them.
Tonight, I am spent.
Not because I did too much but because I survived a day that carried so much weight. Because grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like exhaustion. Sometimes it looks like doing the bare minimum and calling it a victory.
And sometimes it looks like hanging ornaments on a tree, holding love and loss in the same hands.
Good night.
