December | 2025 | Nothing By The Book

Many years ago, I lost a baby at Christmas. What a stupid euphemism — like I misplaced him. I didn’t. I know exactly where he is, exactly where he isn’t.

It’s been more than 20 years. I don’t think of him often, not really. Every once in a while. Always with pain.

And always, always at Christmas.

It doesn’t start as thoughts, you know. My body, it just remembers. And I wish it wouldn’t, but it does.

First the pain, then the emptiness.

At some point, the brain connects the dots and tells me — hey, this is why you’re feeling like shit. You’re welcome. (I don’t actually ever say thank you.)

I have many hacks at this point to get through it all. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes I cry.

It helps to remember that I’m not the only one. Not the only mother to have suffered such a loss. Not the only person facing the bonhomie of the holidays with a hidden sorrow. People don’t stop dying, fighting, leaving, suffering just because it’s Christmas.

Often, they suffer more.

None of this is to suggest that you shouldn’t wish me Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays. Or gift me cards and cookies.

Just, like… be ok with me not expressing unalloyed joy over the holiday season.

And cranky Aunt Augusta, who gets even more cranky over Christmas? Cut her some slack, ok? Maybe something horrid happened to her in December 1987 and she’s, you know, remembering…

I once wrote an entire book about horrible Sundays in December. Everything bad that happens to the characters — every single one of them — happens in December. On a Sunday.

I didn’t realize at the time why. I wasn’t offering it as biography. Or writing it in December.

There are many wonderful things about Christmas, of course. Setting up and decorating the Christmas tree. Watching the cat redecorate it. The pierogy making assembly line at my mom’s house. The kids enjoying their presents. All our special “we make these only once a year because they’re so much work” Christmas foods. Cards or emails from friends you haven’t heard from all year.

But also, through it all, behind it all, there’s grief. New grief. Old grief. Hidden grief.

It’s not your responsibility to fix it.

Or to avoid triggering it. You can’t. It just comes.

Just, when it does, let me feel it.

xoxo

“Jane”

I’m in Toronto for the third time in two weeks. Living out of a suitcase. Disregulated. Frantic, overfull days.

I counter by creating mini-rituals. I leave the hotel room dressed to the nines — my version of, anyway — but not bundled up. I carry my winter coat down the creepy generic hallway, down the elevator, all the way to the lobby doors. Put it on just as I exit. Walk first on this side of the street, then cross over at precisely this point. Walk slowly. Stop at what, after the first Monday morning, I decide is my new favourite coffee shop. Order a decaf latte (get mocked by the barista, a little). Take a few slow, hot sips in the cafe. Ground myself in this way.

I don’t have time to do my full Morning Pages but I jot down a few thoughts. Play with one short concept. Draft a vignette. Arrive at the office with game face on.

Do all the things.

When I get back to the hotel room, I take off my shoes first. Then the coat. Hang it up. Jacket and scarf off. Then everything else. Put everything away carefully. Draw bath… make a note to self to bring a nice candle with me on future trips.

Stay in the bath until I’m a raisin. Then write a few words before climbing into bed. Make a note to myself to exercise more — at all — on the next trip. Walking is not enough.

I get a promotion and I’m stoked. But also, existential angst hits. Is this selling out? Or living my purpose?

A casual conversation during dinner with my VP about skills, sharp claws. I tell her about my practice of starting each day with writing three long hand pages. Every day? Even on weekends? She asks. She sounds incredulous. Every good day, I reply. When I skip, nothing else is as good. Think of it, I tell her, as practice — stretching, running, lifting weights. I need to keep those muscles working, improving. That’s how I’m able to productive a cohesive 90 minute script in a few days. That’s why I’m able to elevate a colleague’s work in a few minutes.

The most useful advice I offer to writers: Write. Practice, to a purpose.

Nobody likes to hear this.

They want a hack.

A magic AI prompt.

In a dirty sheesha cafe — so dirty, I will not be coming back. But it’s all right, it’s what I need right now. Recalibrating. Full days. Busy days. Busy brain. I need to push the busy to the back so that I can rest. Set the ground work for a productive day tomorrow.

Can I apply the discipline I apply to my creative work to everything else in my life?

Yes. I think so.