Holding the Ornaments and the Weight of the World

It’s supposed to be a happy time.

Lights twinkle, cookies start replacing salads, and someone is already blasting Mariah Carey before Thanksgiving leftovers are even gone. And yet - here we are, scrolling through headlines that stop us cold.

A mass shooting. Another senseless loss. Stories so heavy they don’t politely wait their turn until January. They crash right into the middle of our gift lists and grocery runs and “what should we bring to dinner?” texts.

This is the strange tension of the season:
We’re expected to be merry while the world is very clearly not.

And if you’re like me - reasonably caffeinated and trying to stay hopeful without being delusional - it can feel jarring. One minute you’re admiring a perfectly imperfect tree, the next you’re wondering how so much cruelty and chaos still fits inside the same world where people bake gingerbread houses and rescue dogs and fall in love.

Here’s the thing I’m learning (slowly, stubbornly):
Both things can exist at the same time.

The sadness doesn’t cancel the joy.
The joy doesn’t disrespect the sadness.

Being an aging optimist doesn’t mean ignoring reality or slapping glitter on grief. It means acknowledging the bad news without letting it consume every square inch of your spirit. It means saying, yes, this is awful - and also saying, I’m still allowed to laugh at my family, drink some good wine, and feel grateful for the people at my table.

Sometimes optimism looks less like positivity and more like quiet defiance.

It’s lighting the candle anyway.
It’s showing up anyway.
It’s choosing connection when cynicism would be easier.

And yes - sometimes it’s snark. Because humor is how many of us survive. A raised eyebrow at the absurdity. A dry comment exchanged across the room that says, I see you. This is wild. Pass the potatoes.

This season, I’m trying to do a few small things differently:

• I’m limiting how much bad news I consume before coffee (boundaries matter).
• I’m giving myself permission to step away from the noise without guilt.
• I’m letting joy be simple - not performative, not forced, not Instagram-worthy.

Joy can be a warm kitchen.
A shared look.
A moment of peace that doesn’t ask to be explained.

The world is heavy right now. That’s not imagined. That’s not weakness. But choosing moments of light doesn’t mean we don’t care - it means we do.

So if you’re holding happiness in one hand and heartbreak in the other this season, you’re not doing it wrong.

You’re doing it human.

And maybe - just maybe - that’s what optimism looks like now.

Quiet. A little worn. Still standing. Still hoping. Still here.