This Christmas morning doesn’t arrive with a rush.

It arrives softly.

The fog lingers low outside the windows, muting the world in a way that feels intentional—like an invitation to slow down. I slept until 9:30, something a younger version of me might rush past or apologize for. Today, it feels like permission. Like grace.

There is a deep peace that comes with this stage of life. It isn’t loud or flashy. It doesn’t demand matching pajamas or perfectly timed traditions. It simply is.

I’m sitting here in a stretchy paint shirt I’ve had for years, paired with the stretchy pajama pants my sister gave me—both necessary with a broken shoulder and a broken foot. Comfort isn’t optional right now; it’s essential. The cutesy Christmas jammies never make it down from the attic this year, and honestly? That feels perfectly okay. This season doesn’t need them.

The house is calm. Quiet, but not empty. Our doggies are close by—curled up, content, grounding me in the present just by being near. There’s something incredibly comforting about their steady presence on a morning like this.

Johnny-Dad is on the phone with Ike, reminiscing about Christmases past. The year they got laptops—during a very hard season for us, when our business had been robbed and money was tight. Johnny secured a job at a used computer place and found a way to rebuild computers for the kids. The surprise puppy—Bert—meant to be Ernie’s little buddy. Ernie is now in heaven, and Bert lives with Ike. The newest gadgets that felt like pure magic at the time: Nintendo DSs, the Wii, all the things kids hoped for. We always made an event of it, and somehow we found ways to say yes—even to the most unique requests.

Listening to them laugh and remember now makes my heart swell. Knowing our kids carry those memories with them—memories of being seen, celebrated, and cared for—makes every sacrifice worth it. It makes my heart happy to know that, in their minds, those years are remembered not for the struggle, but for the magic.

Both of our Airbnbs are filled with guests today, which brings its own quiet joy—knowing families are waking up and making memories in spaces we pour our hearts into. Even in stillness, life is happening.

The biggest decision of the morning is breakfast—pie or one of the famous cinnamon rolls from our dear, sweet friend Laurel’s kitchen. After careful consideration (and absolutely no guilt), I decide this isn’t an either/or situation. It’s Christmas. Both can happen.

This afternoon, the energy will shift. The kids will arrive, laughter will fill the house, and we’ll make white chicken chili together—the kind of meal that warms more than just the body. We’ll serve it in the red fancy bowls Mary Bernthal gifted me—simple, beautiful reminders of friendship and care.

Our family gift exchange waits. We save it for when Landon, Madilynn, and baby Jack return from Colorado so we can all be together. There’s no rush. No pressure to squeeze everything into one day.

We’ve created space this year—for rest, for waiting, and for being together when the timing is right. A quieter Christmas morning that feels just as full, if not fuller, than years past.

Johnny and I have been parents since we were teenagers. We’ve spent most of our lives pouring outward—building, providing, loving, doing. And in the gentlest way, it sort of feels like it’s our turn now. A turn to breathe. To heal. To savor.

I’m happy here. Truly.

Happy in the quiet.

Happy in the waiting.

Happy knowing that joy doesn’t disappear when things look different—it simply changes shape.

This foggy Christmas morning feels like a reflection of my heart right now—softened, slowed, and deeply at peace. And I’m learning that embracing seasons like this—unpolished, comfortable, and real—is one of the greatest gifts of all.

Stay rosy,

Amber 🤍🤟

#EmbracingThisSeason #QuietChristmas #SeasonOfPeace #GratefulHeart #SlowDown #FamilyMemories #ItIsOurTurn #HealingSeason #ChristmasReflections #StayRosy