It was December 2023, and we were supposed to be moving into a new house. Most people think of the holidays as this perfect, cozy time with Christmas lights, hot chocolate, family traditions. But for me and my family, that month was anything but cozy. Half our stuff was in boxes, the other half was scattered between the old house and the new one, and we were sleeping on air mattresses. There was no tree, no lights, and barely any food in the fridge. I kept telling myself it was just temporary. That once we got through the move, things would settle. Maybe we could still have a decent Christmas.
Then my dad got sick. It started so fast, it didn’t feel real. One day he was just tired, and at first it just seemed like a bad cold, a fever, or maybe the flu. But within a couple of days, he was in the ICU with septic shock, and everything else just...stopped. I remember the way the doctor said the words “septic shock” like we were supposed to know what that meant. But all I heard was that my dad wasn't okay, and this could be really bad. Suddenly the stress of moving felt like nothing. Our almost-finished house didn’t matter. All I cared about was that my dad was hooked up to machines, fighting to stay alive. His birthday is on Christmas Eve, and that’s the day we’ve always made a big deal out of. He likes to go out and eat, his favorite spot is LongHorn Steakhouse. After we usually come back home and my sister bakes a cake, (even though baking isn't really her thing), and we all sit at the table watching him open his gifts, acting like we didn't know what was in it, when we totally do.
But this time, there was no table. No cake. No gift. Just a hospital bed, IVs, and machines beeping steadily like a reminder that everything was different this year. My mom bought him a birthday card and set it next to him. He wasn’t even awake enough to read it. Christmas Day didn’t feel like Christmas at all. We weren’t in our new house yet, and honestly, even if we had been, it wouldn’t have felt like home. There was no tree, no dinner, no music. There was just silence and this heavy feeling in my chest that I couldn’t shake. I spent most of that day in a hospital chair, watching my dad sleep. Nurses came in and out, checking his vitals. One of them wore reindeer antlers, and I wanted to laugh at how out of place it felt. I didn’t, though. I just stared at the machines and thought about how weird life is, how fast everything can flip. One week we were unpacking boxes and arguing over where to hang the TV, and the next we were praying he’d make it to the new year.
That was the year I realized the holidays aren’t about the lights or the gifts or the house. It’s about the people. And when the person at the center of it all is missing or the presence that fills the room isn’t there, it doesn’t feel like the holidays. It doesn’t feel like anything. But as the days passed and my dad started getting better I started to see things a little differently. His recovery was slow, but steady. Every day he stayed awake a little longer. Every day his voice got a little stronger. By January, he was back, he was back in our new home, and everything started to feel normal again. One day while we were setting up, he made a joke about the hospital food and how it had a battle with his taste buds. When we finally set up the living room, and he sat on the couch for the first time, I felt something shift. We didn’t get the Christmas we hoped for, but we got something better in the end: we got him back.
That December taught me not to take anything for granted. When I think about that December, I don’t remember the decorations or the dinners or any of the stuff we missed. I remember how fragile everything is. How quickly life can change. And how even in the middle of chaos, like moving, hospitals, holidays, you figure out what actually matters. Family, time, and love, things that don't come from presents or parties. It wasn’t the house that made it home. It was him coming back to it.
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