As November approaches, I can’t shake this mix of emotions — gratitude tangled up with sadness, hope wrapped around frustration. The holidays are coming fast, yet the world feels so unsteady.
Everywhere I look, people are trying their best to hold it together — to make a little magic out of nothing. But with the government shutdown threatening SNAP benefits for millions of families, it feels like the air has been knocked out of the room. Four hundred million meals — gone, delayed, or uncertain. And for families who already stretch every dollar until it nearly breaks, this isn’t a small thing. It’s the difference between full and hungry. Between dignity and desperation.
It’s painful to think that in the wealthiest country in the world, children will go to bed hungry while billionaires plan their next vacation, buy another jet, or host another extravagant gala. Sometimes I wonder how we got here — how we let greed become the loudest voice in the room while compassion got quiet.
How is it that those who say they love Jesus — who quote the Bible, who talk about building a “Christian nation” — forget His most repeated command: feed the hungry, care for the poor, love your neighbor? Why are we turning our neighbors into ICE, why are we shaming families who work two jobs and still can’t afford a two-bedroom apartment? How can we look away from the mother standing in a food pantry line, or the service member in uniform quietly collecting canned goods to take home?
That sight — a soldier, who’s given everything for this country, standing in line for food — it rips at my soul. This isn’t the America we’re supposed to be.
And still, life keeps moving. The holidays don’t wait for the world to get its act together. We’ll see the lights, the commercials, the holiday movies where everything looks picture-perfect — but behind those screens, real families are struggling. Choosing between dog food and sandwich fixings. Wondering how to tell their kids that Christmas might look a little different this year.
It’s enough to make you want to scream. But I keep coming back to this truth: when systems fail us, we have each other.
Maybe this is the season to turn back to what’s real — to choose meaning over money, connection over consumption. We may not be able to fix the world, but we can soften it.
For me, that means a simpler holiday. I don’t think I can celebrate Thanksgiving the same way this year. Not when so many people can’t fill their plates. I’ll still spend time with friends and family — because love and laughter are sacred — but I want my focus to be on gratitude and giving, not excess. Maybe I’ll skip the big feast and instead spend part of the day making sure someone else has dinner too. That feels more in the spirit of Thanksgiving than anything else.
And when Christmas comes, I’ve already decided: thrifted, homemade, and heartfelt. Gifts that carry meaning instead of price tags. Last year, I helped a friend put together cookbooks for his nieces and brothers — family recipes from their mother, who passed away a few years ago from breast cancer. I added photos of them with her through the years. When they opened those books, it wasn’t just a gift; it was a piece of her love, preserved. The stories, the smudged pages, the laughter frozen in photos — those are the kinds of gifts that last.
That’s what I want this year — connection. Story. Memory.
I’ve been trying to hold onto the “five gifts” rule I started with my kids:
Something they want
Something they need
Something to wear
Something to read
Somewhere to be
It keeps things intentional and helps me remember what matters most. I always add pajamas and an ornament, little traditions that make the holidays ours. This year, I want to make each one more meaningful — something that will remind them that love is found in the moments we share, not the things we buy.
And honestly, I think I’ll be asking my friends and family to do the same. Instead of exchanging expensive gifts, maybe we trade experiences — a homemade dinner, a movie night, a walk with hot cocoa, a day together making memories instead of credit card bills.
Because when the world feels this heavy, we need to lean into the simple joys: the smell of something baking, laughter echoing through the house, a candle flickering in the window, knowing that light — no matter how small — still breaks the dark.
We can’t count on the government right now. But we can count on each other.
So feed someone’s pet when they can’t. Drop off groceries without making a big show of it. Invite a lonely neighbor to dinner. Leave a note of encouragement in a mailbox. These things seem small, but they add up — they become the threads that hold a community together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
When the world feels mad, kindness becomes our quiet rebellion. This holiday season, I’m choosing to rebel with love. With homemade gifts. With compassion. With showing up — for my family, for my neighbors, for anyone who needs a reminder that goodness still exists.
Because we can’t fix everything overnight, but we can make sure no one feels forgotten. And maybe that’s the most powerful kind of holiday spirit there is.
I will be making a post about things like this that will help and come up with conversations and open ideas.
