I’ve been very quiet. Almost the whole of December, actually. And that’s not accidental.
December is a hard month for me. It holds the anniversary of my mother’s death, on the 29th, and as that date approaches my body knows before my mind does. I become anxious, heavy, withdrawn. Christmas brings no joy for me. It never really has. I mostly endure December rather than live it. The relief only comes once the date passes, which is why the new year always feels like a deep exhale. Like I’ve crossed a difficult stretch of road.
As if that wasn’t enough, the end of November and the beginning of December were also taken up by grief that wasn’t mine. A close friend lost her husband. Those weeks were about showing up, holding space, sitting with her pain, and helping where I could. By the time Christmas arrived, I was already emotionally spent.
In the middle of all this, I made a big decision. I officially closed Graceful Maids and Nannies. Properly. Even with the government. I’m now just waiting for the final document confirming that the business has ceased. It was not an easy choice, but it was the right one. I’ve noticed a pattern in my life that I don’t love: I start businesses, pour myself into them, keep them alive for about two years, then shut them down. Becoming a chronic business starter isn’t something I’m proud of, but naming it honestly feels important.
At the same time, something new began. I started an atelier kitchen where I curate human-grade meals for dogs. And this one feels different. I love it. I enjoy it deeply. It’s referral and invite-only because I want to keep it small and intentional. I want to offer quality without burning myself out or losing the joy. For the first time in a long time, I feel aligned with what I’m doing.
One of the most meaningful things I did this season was take my daughter to a hotel. I’ve always wanted her to have that experience—to sleep in a hotel, to feel that sense of something special and different. We went for a small vacation, nothing extravagant, but to her it was magic. On our way home she said, “Mum, this was the best day of my life.” Hearing that filled me in a way I can’t properly explain.
She continues to amaze me in quiet ways. She has expensive taste, and she owns it. At the shop, she will always pick Pringles. Never the cheaper crisps. I try to nudge her gently, but she just says, “No, these are my best crisps.” And that’s that. Whether money is tight or not, she doesn’t lower her standards to fit someone else’s pocket. There’s a confidence there that I love. I don’t want to crush it. I want to protect it.
At the same time, I’ve been struggling deeply with my body. I’ve been in a hateful relationship with it. I carried my swimming costume on the trip, but when it came time to swim with her, I couldn’t do it. I felt too fat. She wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and I told her Mum couldn’t come because she was too fat. I said we should wait for her aunty. Saying those words out loud hurt more than I expected. They landed heavily in my chest.
There were other small moments that stood out. While waiting for breakfast at the hotel, she said she wanted to go home. The room felt small to her compared to our bedroom. The bed felt smaller than ours at home. I know the real reason, though—she doesn’t love eating, and she sensed I was going to insist. We packed her breakfast instead. I got her fish fingers, which she loves, and we went home. And that was okay.
We arrived home safely, and I felt such a deep sense of gratitude. I gave her something I had always wanted to give her. An experience. A memory. And that matters to me. I’ve decided that every time she closes school, we will go away somewhere. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s simple.
When we got home, she told me that next time we should go somewhere and stay for a whole week. I told her we would. She wanted to stay longer this time too, but school was opening. Still, the dreaming has begun.
We also had dinner at a fancy restaurant on the 31st of December. Just the two of us. And it was lovely.
Despite the grief, the heaviness, the body struggles, and the uncertainty, this holiday season gave me something precious. Time. Laughter. Shared experiences. A sense that life is still happening, gently, with my little girl beside me.
I am enjoying life with her. Truly enjoying it. And I am holding onto the hope that there will be many, many more moments like these ahead of us.