12/30/2025
I miss you, Mom and Dad, in the way winter misses the sun — quietly, deeply, and with a longing that becomes part of the light.
Christmas has a way of slowing the soul even when the world keeps moving. The tree lights still shimmer, stockings still hang, and families across America gather with laughter and familiar warmth. But in my heart, the season carries a softer rhythm now — one stitched from memory, gratitude, and the quiet ache of missing you both in moments that once felt effortless.
You were my first sense of home, long before I understood what a foundation truly meant. Mom, your love was gentle but fierce, spoken in care instead of volume, delivered in warmth instead of perfection. Dad, your love was steady, protective, and calm — a quiet courage that made every fear feel smaller, every tomorrow feel safer. Together, you taught me that love is not proven in grand gestures, but in consistency, presence, and choosing family even when life gets heavy.
Now, with more years behind me, I finally understand the silent scale of your sacrifices. You carried worry without letting it show, gave strength without ever demanding it back, and built resilience into our hearts so we could stand tall even when the world felt uncertain. You gave us roots, then trusted we’d grow wings of our own.
Christmas now feels different — not broken, but expanded. Expanded by love that changed form, by grief that revealed depth instead of erasing it, by memory that visits like candle smoke rising upward into the night sky. The world counts seasons. I count presence. And you are still present in every lesson I lean on, every kindness I choose, and every love I give freely because you gave it to me first.
Mom and Dad, you are loved beyond silence and missed beyond time. I send my heart upward this Christmas — full of gratitude for the love you planted here, and full of faith that one day I will be wrapped in your arms again.
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