As the holiday season approaches, I am always wary of wishing someone a “Happy Holidays” or a “Merry Christmas”. Though well intentioned, these statements are laden with assumption, aren’t they? At this time of year, I prefer to make deeply uncomfortable eye contact and inquire “How are you, really?”

Some of you come alive at this time of year, sprinkling glitter and powdered sugar everywhere you go. You hum carols, string lights, and smell like gingerbread. You will likely set up your Christmas tree on November 12th. You excitedly pull out your Santa hat earrings and ugly sweaters, and ensure your stash of charming hostess gifts is sufficient for the lineup of events on your calendar. What fun!

Others feel a sense of dread, obligation, and overwhelm during this “festive season”. In past years, I, too, have succumbed to my own prickly Grinchiness. I craved the day when I could stuff my Christmas tree back into its ridiculously tiny box—which is not unlike attempting to force Pilsbury dough and back into its can. Exhale. Christmas is over for another year.

In recent years though, I have reflected on my cold Christmas heart—which felt two sizes too small--and decided there must be a better way. I was tired of white-knuckling my life for the month of December. I wanted to join the joyous singing with the rest of the citizens of Whoville.  

The shift began by giving myself permission to examine traditions and ask what worked and what didn’t. I kept what felt fun and discarded the rest, even when it meant throwing away what has always been done. As a result, the boys and I have stayed in fancy hotel rooms on Christmas Eve and had pizza by the pool. We’ve dined in luxurious restaurants instead of making turkey dinner. We’ve gone for long walks in the snow on Christmas morning, searching for dazzling Christmas lights. Christmas began to feel like an adventure.

I also embraced the idea that Christmas is more than one day. It offers a full month to celebrate with people I love, play with my kids, and create moments of joyful memories. Last year, my boys and I created an “advent calendar”. One evening in November, we sat down, and wrote slips of paper containing creative games, festive outings, and bonding opportunities. We jotted down ideas such as:

• Eat dessert for dinner
• Do a TikTok dance
• Take mittens to the homeless shelter
• Hang candy canes on our neighbors’ doorknobs
• Have a Christmas movie marathon
• Plan a game night
• Bake cookies
• Have a snowball fight

We put all of the ideas into a jar and beginning December 1st, took turns pulling one slip per day. No matter what, we would make that activity happen before we went to bed. What ensued were weeks of laughter and precious family time. By the time December 24th rolled around, it didn’t matter what the day held, for we had already created a memorable holiday season. Turkey dinner or not, we’d had an incredible Christmas together. This is our favorite new tradition.

So, give yourself permission to let go of anything which doesn’t serve you during this busy time of year. Don’t be afraid to create your own brand of magic, carve new traditions, and invite your kids to provide input into the redefinition of this holiday season.

I wont' wish you "Happy holidays."

Instead, from the bottom of my heart, know that I want you to really be okay.
 
Love,
Kel

Seven days. Seven nights.

That’s how long I will be forced to spend with myself this week. Yep, I said forced. How astute of you to notice.

I am an extroverted introvert by nature. At work, when my role and the expectations are crystal clear, I easily put my leadership pants on. I am charismatic and confident. Strip my professional identity and throw me into a social setting? I suddenly become awkward and uncertain. All the confidence I have leaches out of my body and I’d rather be at home in my pajamas.

That said, I am happiest at home in my pajamas with others. I am madly, obsessively in love with my husband. I adore my children and jump at the chance to hang out with them. I’m even thrilled to meet a girlfriend for coffee, provided I can be home in my pajamas by 8pm. Are you sensing a pattern? My life rarely requires pants.

This week, I will be on my own. My husband is traveling, and my boys will be staying with their dad. I have seven days and seven nights to spend with me, myself, and I.

The problem is this bitch is boring.

I’m a recovering workaholic which means for the last twenty years, I have not developed a repertoire of hobbies which I’m passionate about. I worked and I dedicated my energy to my family. Full stop. One of the reasons I recently decided on a drastic career shift was because I desperately needed to create more balance in my life. I want to discover who I am separate from my job. Now that my boys are on the precipice of becoming men, I am challenging myself to become whole and happy apart from them. Our lives are no longer intricately intertwined, which is exactly as it should be.

It seems the Universe heard my intentions and promptly presented an opportunity for me to walk the walk.

Fuck.

I don’t want to spend the week merely surviving, counting down the hours as they tick, tick, tick slowly by. Nor do I wish to numb myself in front of a screen—mindlessly scrolling social media or watching movie after movie. And, let’s be honest, I’m not one to go out at night strapping on my heels and sipping martinis with the girls. (Do I still own heels?)

Which leads me to ask…
What brings me joy?
What makes me feel fulfilled?
What feeds me with purpose?

Logical Kel understands this week provides me with sacred time to dive into self-exploration. It’s a chance to grow and thrive. Emotional Kel is scared shitless. Can I come out of this with my sanity intact?

I’m trying to embrace the opportunity (which I am fully aware other women would give their right arm for) and move towards it with a positive mindset. I’ll let you know how it goes…
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In the meantime, pray for me. Text me. Send Xanax. 

It was only Wednesday, and I was already frazzled. I was having one of those weeks where there simply weren’t enough hours to get it all done—unless I chose to forgo sleeping…

I had asked my sons—14 and 16 years old—to prepare supper that evening. I had a day chalked full of commuting, lectures, and meetings and if the traffic gods allowed, would walk in the door with twenty minutes to put food in my face before both boys needed to be driven to soccer practice. Used to a certain level of responsibility being placed upon them, they agreed.

My kids have always been expected to contribute to our home, but I don’t believe in paying them an allowance. We all live here together, and it takes a team to keep the ship afloat. Besides, they make 90% of the mess, so they should in fact clean it up! Additionally, no one pays me to cook, clean, and do the laundry… I digress.

The stars and planets aligned, and I was indeed able to make it home for dinner that Wednesday. As an added bonus, I even had time to change into my comfy clothes before jumping back into the car that evening. I was SO looking forward to having dinner and sitting down to connect with my family. However, when I walked in the door, I did not hear the joyful sounds of productivity in the kitchen, nor did I smell the spicy sweet tomato sauce simmering. The kitchen was empty of people and food.

WTF?

Almost immediately upon my heels, my oldest son sauntered through the front door.

“Hey Mama!”

“I hope you brought dinner with you.”

“Nope. My brother was going to cook.”

Little Brother looked up from his cellphone with a face of utter confusion. It would have been comical, had I not been starving. “I thought we were going to cook together when you got home.”

The three of us stared at each other in silence, the atmosphere thick with tension.

In that moment, did I react with a calm, firm response and with the intention of leadership and problem-solving? Hell no.  I sat down on the kitchen floor and sobbed.

It wasn’t about the dinner. All of the overwhelm and stress that had been building up leaked out of my eyeballs. My sons stood in front of me, horrified.
Gathering some shreds of dignity, I picked myself off the floor and walked upstairs to my room.

“Mama are you angry?” they called.

“Yes.” (Maybe not enough dignity yet. Must. Calm. Down.)

I’ve thought about this moment in retrospect. Should I have acted with more maturity and been forgiving of their miscommunication? Perhaps. It certainly wasn’t my shining moment as a mother. But what happened next makes me think that my show of emotion wasn’t entirely negative.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a gentle knock on my bedroom door.

“Supper is ready. Please come downstairs,” the boys tentatively invited.

Physically and emotionally exhausted, tears still slipping down my cheeks, I sat at the kitchen table as my children served spaghetti.

We ate in silence, and tears fell from their eyes too. They weren’t used to seeing me break.

“I’m sorry,” I began. “Yes, I am disappointed that supper wasn’t ready, but I overreacted. I’m crying because I’m stressed and tired.”

My sons walked over and wrapped their man-sized arms around me. “We’re sorry too. We called our coaches to let them know we wouldn’t be at practice tonight. We didn’t uphold our end of the bargain, so we don’t think it’s fair to ask you to drive us.”

All of this to say, my friends, that in showing my vulnerability, my children realized how much they take for granted. My tears drove home the knowledge that their contributions matter and that one person cannot be expected to carry the load alone.

We try so hard to shield our children from guilt and shame, from knowing that they hurt our feelings or let us down. Looking back, I see this slip in my armor as a teachable moment for my boys. I hope they reflected upon my meltdown in a way which makes them better humans and better partners in the future.

I’ll admit that sobbing with snot running down your face is a wee bit over the top. You’d likely handle the situation with much more grace than I did. Either way, our little family team grew stronger as a result, and supper is now ready as expected.
  

 




​I am a voracious reader who is a ‘lil obsessive about personal development. The Buddhist in me believes my purpose in life is to grow and evolve thus I am constantly in search of ways to improve as a human. It's gross, I know.

A few months ago, I read Hal Elrod’s book, The 5am Challenge--an inspiring story about the author’s cancer journey. Hal passionately explains that his life was saved, in part, by a deeply intentional morning routine. By starting each day focused on his mental and physical health, Hal forged an iron strong mindset which became not only a crucial component to his healing but also led him to become wildly successful in his relationships and his career. The book ends with a challenge to readers—a dare almost. Set your alarm clock horrifyingly early and see how it changes your life.

Huh. That might be worth a try.

In full disclosure, I’ve always been an early riser. In college, I chose jobs which began at the crack of dawn and set me free by the time most others were on their lunch break. I was a barista. I took the early morning shift at the gym. With tales of massive cash tips, my sister tried to entice me to become a server at the restaurant where she worked, but the thought of staying up until 2am made me nauseous. Not worth the money!  

When I was a teacher, I would arrive at school at 6:30am so that I could leave by 3:30 and take on the remainder of my day. Getting up early gave me freedom. However, waking early for work felt easier than waking early by choice.

Regardless, I promised myself I would stick with The 5am Challenge for ninety days.

Starting the following morning, when my alarm chimed (because I don’t believe in beginning my day with a heart attack prompted by an aggressive beeping noise), I would roll out of bed and put on my workout clothes. Next, coffee. Because I’m not a total monster. Coffee first, life second! I would enjoy the precious caffeine without the distraction of social media. I simply sat alone with my thoughts. Then, I would move my body for at least thirty minutes. Following exercise, I would meditate, chant, read, journal, or listen to a podcast to complete my morning routine. All of this occurred in calm, peaceful silence before my family woke, bringing love and chaos to the day.

The first few days felt exciting and new. I kept waiting for the novelty to wear off. But do you know what? It didn’t.

I became addicted to starting my day by nourishing my body and my spirit. No matter what else happened over the next 24 hours, I started with self-care and the best of intentions. I might go on to have writer’s block, be late to soccer practice, or scorch the supper, but at least I freaking meditated that morning!
 
Ninety days turned into six months. Six months turned into a year and the 5am Challenge is still going strong.

I fully acknowledge that I lost many of you at “5am”. However, if you are still reading, it’s likely because you have some curiosity about dedicating time to your health, even if the suggestion of an early morning makes you itchy and slightly queasy. Don’t let the “5am” trip you or stop you completely. Give yourself permission to create your own rules.

Maybe you simply wake up one hour earlier than normal. Perhaps you work from home and can take a midday “recess” break. Stay up one hour later and finish your day with reflection. I have a friend who ends each day by eating candy in the bathtub, surrounded by candles. When my children were young, I gifted myself with one hour in between the time I left work and the time I picked them up from childcare. Find a way to make yourself a priority!

However it may look—5am, 2pm, or 10pm-I challenge you to make intentional self-care part of your daily routine. Try it consistently for ninety days and discover the difference it makes. You never know, the habit might just stick! 

Or, text me and tell me how much you despise it. I'll be awake. 

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