Traveling Traditions

Winter always arrives with a honey-do list. Get boxes down from the attic. Bust out matching flannel pajamas. Ending the night with special mugs clinking with hot chocolate and too much whipped cream. There's the obligatory watching of that one movie—yes, that one—and the panicked, last-minute wrapping of presents under a tree that's been slowly shedding needles since Thanksgiving.

The season is all sleigh bells and scarcity: days so short you blink and miss them, shelves stripped bare of peppermint everything, calendars inked red with obligations. Everyone rushing toward Christmas like it’s a finish line. We are told winter is for more. More sparkle. More traditions with capital-Ts.

But at some point, between the tinsel and the urgency, I started to wonder what winter was really for.

It might have been in the silence between snowfalls, when I realized: winter is not a race. It is a pause. A season that demands stillness, not chaos.

Perhaps the most sacred ritual of all is learning to be present—truly present—whether that means standing beside a frost-framed window, alone, holding a mug that steams between your palms, or sitting across from someone you love, the silence between you rich and warm.

I learned this the year I almost missed spending Christmas with my children.

There is no preparation for that kind of absence. No amount of garland or glitter fills the space where laughter used to be. I was in another city then, apart from their father, and them, my heart split across state lines. The world kept spinning its holiday carousel while I stood still, quieter than snowfall.

The man I was seeing—kind and intuitive in ways I hadn’t yet known I needed—saw something hollow in me. Understanding that, though this was our first holiday together, with him is not where I needed to be. Without hesitation, he paid for the gas needed to go to and from, and hotels along the way. He made sure I made it to them.

That act shifted something.

From that winter forward, the ritual changed.

We stopped stressing about what our companions may want, or what cool new tech the kids are into. We stopped pinching for the kind of gifts that break (within the first 10 minutes) or get lossed (not by accident but because the kids hate it) or for that 12$ paper (that ends up getting shredded to pieces in half a second).

Every year since, we choose a place to go. Sometimes it’s snow-covered mountains, sometimes it’s warm coastlines with sand. Sometimes it's a hotel just down the street.

We traded chaos for time, with the understanding that material is just that but time is not. There is, of course, fresh baked cinnamon rolls ready for when the sleepy bodies arise. Old jingles playing on the radio, then comes a mixed tape of early 90's Christmas music to settle us into the spirit. I do gift my babies with new pj's and a new blanket. Like time, comfort makes all the difference.

Because the truth is, the most lasting things are the memories you create.

Now, when winter comes, we ask: Where to next?