What The Holiday Card Does Not Show
Holiday cards are a big deal for me, and I’ll admit—I feel a little self-conscious about it. This tradition, often the subject of lighthearted jokes, holds a significant place in my heart. Every year, I make sure the photo is just right—sometimes with a professional photographer, often set against beautiful vacation backdrops. For me, the card is more than a festive greeting; it’s a quiet declaration that life is okay, that we’re thriving.
There’s a unique joy in seeing those cards displayed. Walking into the schools in my district and spotting my kids’ photos hanging in the office always makes me smile. I love hearing the comments about how much they’ve grown or how radiant they look.
But when my loved one’s addiction took hold, the Christmas card became something else entirely. It was no longer just a cheerful tradition; it became a shield. I had kept his addiction private from most people, and that card was my way of telling the world we were a happy, intact family—even when everything felt like it was falling apart.
Yesterday, a dear friend who also loves photos shared that she was thinking of skipping her card this year. When I asked why, she admitted she just didn’t have the energy to pull it off. My heart ached for her because I understood exactly what she meant. There are seasons in life when even the simplest traditions feel like mountains too steep to climb.
I offered to help her without hesitation because I understand the value of this ritual—not just the card itself but the act of reflecting on the year and finding a moment worth holding onto, even in the midst of hardship.
For me, the holiday card tradition continued even in times of chaos and fear. The year my loved one was at his sixth residential program was one of them. Finding a photo felt nearly impossible, yet I sent the card anyway. It was my way of presenting our family to the world in the way I wanted them to see us. It was not authentic but a shield.
Every card carries a hidden story—including resilience, pain, and growth. This year’s card is no exception. The photo was taken at my nephew’s proposal celebration. My daughter, still recovering from a cheerleading accident and surgery, wore a long dress to cover the scars on her leg and the boot on her ankle. My son, rushing from Pennsylvania, pulled his clothes from the trunk of his car moments before we left, wrinkles and all.
Yet, despite its imperfections, the photo is a representation of our family. It’s honest—a snapshot of where we are, of our survival, and of our love.
On the back of the card, as always, is a candid family photo—the one that doesn’t make it to the mantle but holds equal importance. This year, we’re all smiling, and I’m laughing. It’s a reminder that joy can coexist with struggle, and that the wrinkles and scars are part of the story.
While this tradition brings me satisfaction, I know it’s not for everyone. Life often calls for prioritizing different forms of connection, reflection, or rest, and that’s okay.
I share this because I know many of us have been where my friend is—too tired, too overwhelmed, too unsure of how to hold it all together. If that’s you, know this: it’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to let someone else shoulder some of the weight.
Behind every card, there’s a story. Sometimes, it’s one of celebration. Other times, it’s one of survival. This season, I invite you to reflect on your own story—the one that doesn’t fit neatly on glossy paper but is every bit as meaningful.
If you’re navigating addiction, recovery, or any of life’s challenges, remember this: the wrinkles, the scars, and the laughter all belong in the frame. Your story matters, and your hope is worth holding onto.
