The holidays arrive with good intentions and heavy footsteps.

There’s the hustle and bustle, the constant movement, the off-schedule days that blur together, and the steady hum of activity that feels impossible to turn down. Even when joy is present, it often shows up wearing chaos like a festive sweater.

Two little elves

This year, our holiday soundtrack included the determined energy of little elves—one nearly three years old, the other a six-month-old bundle of curiosity; each adding their own brand of wonder and noise to the room. Laughter mixed with squeals, crawling missions turned into full-scale army-crawl operations, and the house felt alive in ways that were beautiful … and a touch overwhelming.

For caregivers, especially those loving someone with dementia, the holidays can feel like walking a tightrope. We want to soak in the moments. We want tradition. We want connection. But we also know that change - even joyful change - comes at a cost.

Holiday Spirit - Not So Much

But if I’m being honest, I struggled to get into the holiday spirit myself.

Normally, the day after Thanksgiving, the house practically explodes with festiveness. Boxes come down, music goes on, and the transformation begins. This year, the boxes were opened - but only halfway. Picked through slowly. Carefully. Each decoration came with a memory I wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

Every ornament holds a story. Handmade treasures from when the kids were young. Little trinkets collected from trips and adventures that feel like a lifetime ago. Decorations that once marked seasons of laughter, busyness, and “before.” I found myself holding them longer than necessary, quietly negotiating whether I had the emotional energy to place them on the tree.

The tree itself sat half-decorated for a couple of weeks, with only the toddler-safe ones scattered on the lower two feet of the tree.

Literally.

A string of lights, a few ornaments placed with intention—and then nothing. It stayed that way until two days before Christmas, when I finally found it in me to finish. Not because I suddenly felt festive, but because sometimes you honor the season simply by showing up, even imperfectly.

And then there’s the *Marty Bell.*
Our tradition has always been that the Marty Bell goes at the top of the tree. Next to the star. Next to the angel. The bell. It’s not just a decoration—it’s a symbol. Of years gone by. Of love, faith, family, and continuity. Of all the holidays that came before this one.

“Are you going to put up the bell? I need the bell …", my love asked. Placing it this year felt heavier.

I held it in my hands longer than usual, feeling the weight of the memories attached to it. For a moment, I wasn’t sure I was ready. But when it finally made its way to the top of the tree, it felt like a quiet promise that even when traditions shift, some things still hold steady. The tree wasn’t perfect. But the bell was exactly where it belonged.

Tradition Saves Us

In the middle of it all, there were moments of deep comfort. One of the highlights was our traditional lasagna. A simple thing, really, but deeply meaningful. My love insisted on making it himself. Not alone, of course (supervised, supported, and encouraged), but his hands remembered the rhythm. Layer by layer, muscle memory took over. It was like poetry in motion as he glided back and forth from counter to counter, leaving a trail of cheese and sauce. The dog tap danced in a puddle of Labrador drool (IYKYK) hoping for a smackerel of big, fat noodle when the pan was completed.

On Christmas Day, we relished it not just because it tasted like home, but because it was home - familiar, grounding, safe.

Here’s Your Sign

Yet even in those moments, I noticed the signs.

The clenched hands.

That quiet, physical cue that anxiety was rising long before words could explain it. Fingers drawn tight, as if bracing against a world that suddenly felt too loud, too fast, too full. It’s a language I’ve learned to read fluently.

Phone calls went unanswered. Conversations were kept short. I adjusted my expectations again, recognizing that he didn’t want to talk to many people, and that pushing through would only add to the overwhelm. Silence isn’t disinterest. It’s protection.

And so, I protected him. And in many ways, I had to protect myself, too.

Caregiving during the holidays isn’t about recreating what once was. It’s about adapting—sometimes quietly, sometimes painfully—to what is. It’s about understanding that grief and gratitude can coexist in the same room. That joy can be real even when it feels muted.

The New Holiday Norm

As we move through the season—and any gathering filled with hustle, hubbub, and well-meaning noise—I’ve learned that managing get-togethers looks different now. Smaller is better. Shorter is kinder. Quiet corners matter. Having an “exit plan” isn’t rude; it’s responsible. Stepping away, even briefly, can make the difference between staying regulated and becoming overwhelmed.

I’ve also learned to schedule recovery time just as intentionally as the event itself. One activity a day is plenty. Back-to-back plans are an invitation for anxiety to take hold. Familiar routines—mealtimes, rest, favorite foods, a familiar chair—offer more comfort than any perfectly planned celebration ever could.

And perhaps most importantly, I remind myself that it’s okay to say no. To phone calls. To drop-ins (Do people still do that anymore?) To gatherings that feel like too much. Protecting peace is not selfish; it’s caregiving.

The holidays may be louder, messier, and more unpredictable than we’d like. But with a little planning, a lot of grace, and permission to adjust expectations, they can still be meaningful. Sometimes that meaning shows up quietly, away from the noise, in the moments where love is felt rather than announced.

We don’t need to keep up with the season.
We just need to care for ourselves and those we love within it.

Some Things To Consider

Don’t Isolate - manage the interactions, whether they’re face-to-face or phone calls.
Stay active - even a nice walk can do well to keep some holiday blues at bay
Take a few minutes for yourself - take a few minutes to read, have coffee on the deck, breathe!
Set reasonable expectations - focus on connections, create and embrace new traditions, and focus on the moments.

We hold joy where we can.
We loosen our grip on the memories that ache.
And we meet each other—little elves, lasagna, clenched hands and all—exactly where we are.

Fah-la-la-oh my