A Candle In The Window
Advent reflections on rest and resilience
Last week I wrote about paradox — about how life is often lived not in choosing one truth over another, but in learning to stand between them. Since then, I’ve been sitting with another truth — one that feels especially close as Christmas approaches:
Difficult things don’t arrive at convenient times.
Illness doesn’t wait until the diary is clear. Trauma doesn’t pause for festive seasons. Grief and exhaustion don’t politely step aside because the calendar says celebration.
And yet here we are — lighting candles, wrapping gifts, singing familiar songs — while carrying things that are heavy, tender, unresolved.
This year, that reality feels close to the surface for me.
When vulnerability meets a “special” season
In 2020, I was diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD). Since then, I’ve been doing steady, committed work to heal — slowly learning how to feel safer in my body, how to tell the truth about my limits, how to stay present without collapsing.
I’ve also learned that healing is not a straight line.
The last few months have brought experiences that have been genuinely destabilising for me — layered on top of caring for Mum, navigating systems, and holding ongoing uncertainty. And all of that has landed right in the middle of Advent.
There’s a particular poignancy when vulnerability collides with a season that carries so much expectation. A season that speaks of joy and peace, while your nervous system is quietly working overtime just to stay regulated.
I want to be honest about that — but not dwell there.
Choosing not to collapse
What I’m noticing, with some gentleness towards myself, is this:
I am vulnerable — and I am still standing.
Not because I’m pushing through.
Not because I’m pretending things are fine.
But because I’m choosing kindness — especially towards myself.
That kindness has looked very practical.
Recently, I was due to host and run a large church lunch — around 80 people — at a time when I was already stretched thin. In another season of my life, I would have pushed myself to do it anyway, quietly absorbing the cost.
This time, I paused.
I said no to the original plan — and yes to something simpler.
We replaced a full lunch with coffee, hot chocolate, and cake during an extended break. It was manageable. It was warm. And importantly, nobody was disappointed or let down.
Nothing fell apart.
That felt like a small but significant moment — choosing ease where I could, because other things are hard — and trusting that the world would not collapse without my over-functioning.
Letting go of the fixer role
Part of my ongoing therapy has been unpicking a long-held belief that I need to be the fixer — the one who holds everything together.
This season is gently, persistently teaching me that there are many things I cannot fix.
And more surprisingly: if I step away for a while, things do not unravel.
In fact, they may even be better for it.
I’ve gratefully accepted the offer of my sister-in-law to come over and spend extra time with Mum. Allowing that support has felt both humbling and freeing — a reminder that care is not meant to be carried alone.
Rest as part of the work
As this piece goes out, I’m looking ahead to a week away with my husband — time that feels deeply needed and genuinely restorative.
I’m practising not feeling guilty about that.
Rest is not an indulgence.
It is not avoidance.
It is part of the work.
Time to walk, to breathe fresh air, to explore quietly, to notice beauty. Time to geek out over local buses and historic places. Time to let my nervous system settle.
None of this means I care less.
It means I’m learning how to stay well enough to keep caring.
An invitation — gentle and real
If Christmas feels hard for you this year — if everything seems to be converging at once — I want to say this quietly and clearly:
You are allowed to make space.
You are allowed to simplify.
You are allowed to say no.
You are allowed to rest.
Doing less does not mean you are failing.
It may be the most faithful thing you can do.
If you have suggestions for me for calming audio, gentle podcasts, or restful listens, I’d love to hear them in the comments. And if you have found your own ways of making Christmas lighter when life is heavy, your wisdom is welcome here, too.
Light that doesn’t deny reality
I don’t believe peace comes from pretending things are easier than they are.
I think it comes from meeting reality with honesty — and then choosing kindness anyway.
This Christmas, that’s what I’m practising:
Not fixing everything.
Not holding everything.
But making room for rest, support, and small, real moments of joy.
Even here.
Even now.
And that, this year, is enough.
I’m signing off for this year with an Advent poem
Dear Advent,
You arrive again this year — not tidy, not quiet, not asking my permission.
You come while hospital letters sit on the table,
while my body remembers things I didn’t invite back,
while love and worry walk hand in hand through the days.
You come while I am tired — and still hoping.
Please don’t ask me for more than I can give.
Sit with me instead.
Teach me that small lights matter.
That rest is holy.
That doing less can still be faithful.
Help me notice what is enough:
warm drinks,
kind hands,
shared laughter,
fresh air,
a body that keeps showing up,
love that hasn’t gone anywhere.
If peace comes, let it come gently.
If joy appears, let it be quiet and real.
And if all I can manage is to stay present,
let that be enough for today.
Advent, hold the tension for me.
Let the waiting be a place of kindness.
Let the light arrive slowly.
Yours,
Still standing.
Still loved.
Still here.