Christmas Cards Look a Little Different

I love Christmas. I really do. The lights, the music, the peppermint-everything… it all feels like living in a snow globe designed by a woman who owns too many throw pillows.

But let’s be honest: there were years—whole seasons—where the idea of sending out Christmas cards felt about as doable as climbing Mount Kilimanjaro in Spanx. Backwards. In the rain.

Every December, those picture-perfect families on Instagram would cheerfully announce, “Our cards are out!” and I would think, “My goodness, I’ve got to at least find the box where I hid my good intentions.”

If you're looking for over the top Christmas ideas, take a look here. I'm more of a simple is better kind of gal but it always amazes me the creativity that some possess.

Some years, life just had sharper corners. Holidays felt more like emotional bumper cars—lots of impact, very little control. And in those seasons, the energy it took just to get through each day? That was the Christmas miracle.

But this year… this year feels different.
Life softened a bit. Or maybe I softened. Maybe both.

Somewhere between the chaos, the travel, the transitions, the grown kids who still need things, and the Goldendoodle who believes she’s human, I stumbled into something unexpected:

I started painting again.
And not the “paint the living room a color you'll regret in six months” kind—
the good kind. The heart kind.

And it changed me.

Reduced anxiety? Oh, honey… yes.
Created new friendships? Yes, and with people who don’t mind that I show up with paint on my hands.
Helped me reconnect with the younger version of myself? The one with big dreams, bangs, and sparkly Keds? Absolutely.
Given me renewed hope and passion? More than I expected and dreamed possible

All of this is the long, scenic, “walk around the block because I forgot what I came out here for” way of saying this:

I’m making hand-painted Christmas postcards this year.
Real ones.
With my own two hands.
Each one a tiny masterpiece… or at least a charmingly lopsided attempt at one.

And I am ridiculously proud of them.

I’ve painted them late at night, early in the morning, in between Zoom calls, and during moments when I should’ve been folding laundry. They are slightly crooked, deeply heartfelt, and soaked in a level of love and patience that I didn’t know I still had in me.

My hope is simple:
That whoever opens their mailbox and finds one will smile…
maybe laugh a little…
maybe feel a tiny spark of holiday cheer…
and know—really know—that they matter to me.

Because this year, in the middle of everyday life,
I learned that joy doesn’t always come galloping in on a sleigh.
Sometimes, it tiptoes in holding a paintbrush.

And I’m grateful.

Merry Christmas, friends.
May your days be merry, bright, and only slightly sticky with watercolor.