For more than ten years, Christmas has unfolded without my mother by my side. What once was a shared holiday filled with tradition and closeness has become a long-distance celebration, dictated not by choice but by circumstance. Our separation has always been rooted in geography: she has built her life on one side of the country, while I have settled on the other. Between us lie five hours in the air or nearly twenty-six hours by car, a drive often complicated by unpredictable winter weather that can turn any journey into a test of endurance and patience. Because of this, she has spent many quiet Christmases in solitude, while I—by necessity and love—have taken on the role of orchestrator and guardian of holiday magic for my immediate family.
As the years passed and my four sons grew from rambunctious boys into thoughtful men, their lives began to branch outward. They found new homes, new jobs, and eventually new partners who have joined our celebrations. Yet, despite their growing independence and the new energy their partners bring, I have remained the primary organizer—the list-maker, the one who ensures no detail is forgotten, the decision-maker who ensures every table setting, meal, and moment feels complete. Still, I have felt the gradual easing of my responsibilities as my sons, all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-one, have taken on small but meaningful roles to lift the holiday burden from my shoulders. For the first time, Christmas seemed poised to evolve into a calmer, more collaborative affair.
Everything changed this year. My mother, who just lost her husband of nearly forty years, will be flying to spend Christmas with me. Her arrival, while deeply welcome, has cast a new light on my responsibilities and my finances. Hosting her feels precious and daunting all at once. I now realize that I must stretch my already tight budget further than I anticipated—because this year, I will not only be mother and hostess, but also Santa for my own mother.
At first, I didn’t think much about how her visit might alter the balance of our usual holiday rhythm. My thoughts rested on her heartbreak—the immense, shattering absence of the man who stood beside her for most of her life. I imagined her exhaustion, her disorientation, her loneliness in the echoing rooms of her home. But as her flight draws near, it’s dawning on me that she will need more than companionship. She will need joy—the kind that feels childlike and restorative. She will need a stocking filled with small, thoughtful treasures; festive moments that remind her that life, even after loss, can still glimmer. She will need me to rekindle her connection to the kind of big family Christmas she once hosted for others.
Yet, as I prepare for her arrival, I find myself struggling under the weight of everything that Christmas now requires. My family’s needs pull at me from every direction. My sons expect me—often unconsciously—to be the center that holds us together: to coordinate meals, bake the traditional cookies, secure a spacious rental large enough for all of us to gather, and to make sure everyone feels included and loved. I can’t help but track the financial realities within our family—quietly calculating who might be doing well and who might be struggling, pondering how to give more to those who need it most while maintaining a balance that feels fair. The generosity I long to offer feels limitless in emotion yet painfully finite in money.
This conflict of heart and circumstance lies at the core of my holiday anxiety this year. I feel the immense pressure of being both mother and daughter, giver and comforter, Santa to all. Even though everyone joining me this Christmas is technically an adult, I can’t shake the sense that I’m still the only one fully responsible for holding the season together—the only true grown-up amid all the grown-ups in the room.
Financially, I am treading on fragile ground. This year has been marked by instability and uncertainty. Like so many others, I have lost one job after another throughout 2025, each loss eroding my sense of security and self-assurance. It feels as though I’m adrift just beneath the surface, fighting exhaustion as I search for air, desperate not to lose everything I’ve worked so hard to preserve. While I remind myself that my family never expects lavish gifts or grand gestures, the truth is that even the smallest token—a simple present that carries love and thoughtfulness—feels out of reach. There are ten people to consider, and even a modest plan, such as spending one hundred dollars per person, quickly adds up to a thousand dollars—a sum that once felt manageable but now seems insurmountable.
So this year, I’m choosing to adapt. Creativity has become my new form of currency. I’m scouring thrift stores and secondhand markets, searching not for things of great cost but of great meaning. I’m experimenting with my hands—crafting personal gifts, however imperfect, that I hope will resonate more deeply than anything with a price tag. In my more whimsical moments, I fantasize about having a handful of elves to share the endless tasks that come with being the family Santa. Instead, I settle for the quiet resolve of doing my best: focusing on what I can control and setting aside the gnawing fear of unemployment until after the holiday has passed. I remind myself, again and again, that trying—truly, wholeheartedly trying—is enough.
More than anything, I am determined to give my mother what she most needs this season: comfort, connection, and the healing salve of family togetherness. This will be her first Christmas as a widow, and it should not be overshadowed by my own stress or financial worry. She deserves laughter, companionship, and the gentle reminder that love—love in its purest, simplest form—costs nothing. I know that, for her and for my children alike, I must be the steady presence that anchors our family through change and grief. They all need me to be the one who keeps the spirit alive.
Yes, the weight of that responsibility feels immense. But rather than letting it crush me, I am choosing gratitude. Gratitude for the privilege of still having my mother to hold, even in her sorrow. Gratitude for my sons, whose presence always fills the house with laughter and warmth. Gratitude, above all, that love remains abundant even when money does not. This year, my gift to myself will be the act of recognizing that despite all the exhaustion, the stretching, and the strain, I am surrounded by love—and that is more than enough.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/hosting-mom-for-christmas-struggling-extra-costs-2025-12
