It’s 2:30 in the morning, and I just turned out the kitchen lights after getting all my gifts wrapped and cleaned up a little before the husband and daughter — both morning people who wake up at the butt crack of dawn — emerge from sleep on Christmas morning. I’ll wake up, too, silently scheduling a nap not long after lunchtime.

I even swept in the dead of night, which in the Filipino tradition I grew up in, is bad luck for some reason. After the crummy year of job loss, sadness, and despair over the state of the world, I can’t imagine sweeping at night would be that big a deal.

We have a parol flashing in our living room window and a yard-high fake white tree with quieter but more colorful lights on an end table nearby. The bright colors of the season don’t really dredge me out of the meh vibe I’ve had this month. But they’re good company in the dark as I type this.

Substack is good company, too – I’m writing this over there as well – though I doubt anyone will read this in the Notes feed there. I still don’t see the point of Notes, since they don’t seem to draw any eyeballs to my newsletter or any other writing of mine here beyond that. If I’m at the mercy of some faceless algorithm, Notes feels pointless. But I push on.

At the very least, it feels good to write. And I know it feels good to create art, but I haven’t done much of that lately.

The husband and daughter anchor me, even when I’m cranky, unwell, or otherwise unable to drag myself out of bed. I’m not sure what I’d do without them.

The fresh start of a new year feels like a merciful thing. That may be the greatest gift for me this season. It may be the only thing that truly pulls me forward. And I’m grateful for that. Merry Christmas.