True Joy During the Holidays

 There’s a point in the season where the days start to feel a little louder. You know, the inbox fills up and school papers come home crumpled in backpacks. There are sign-ups and parties and “just one more thing” to remember. Your mind starts running three steps ahead while your body is still standing at the kitchen counter.

And often, our children feel all of this before we even say a single word. 

This is where the gift of a quiet moment comes in—not as another item on your to-do list, but as a soft place to rest for both of you. A tiny island of stillness in an otherwise busy day. A moment where your child’s inner light, and your own, can take a gentle breath and feel safe again.

What is a “quiet moment,” really?

When I say a quiet moment, I don’t necessarily mean silence. I’m talking about a tiny pocket of intentional calm—a breath, a reset, a small softening where you come back to yourself and back to each other.

A quiet moment might look like:

• Taking three slow breaths together before you walk into a family gathering.
• Sitting in the car for one extra minute with the radio off, just holding your child’s hand.
• Stirring a pot on the stove and consciously letting your shoulders drop while your child colors at the table nearby.

It’s less about what you’re doing and more about how you are inside while you do it.

A quiet moment is a choice to return to:

• a bit more stillness in your body
• a bit more rest in your nervous system
• a bit more calm in your energy

so your child can feel that it’s safe to relax, too.

Your child doesn’t need a perfect parent; they need a grounded one. And these gentle reset moments help you both find your footing again.

Children read our energy first

Before children make sense of our words, they’re reading our energy.

They feel the rush in our footsteps, the tension in our voice, the way our eyes seem to be somewhere else. When we move through the day in a constant state of hurry, they will often carry that same sense of hurry inside their own bodies.

A quiet moment is a spiritual act because it breaks that pattern and when you choose to stop and take a slow breath, soften your face, unclench your jaw, or simply place a hand on your heart, you’re not just helping yourself. You’re quietly telling your child:

“Your light is safe with me. I’m here. I’m not somewhere else in my head. I’m with you.”

Even if you don’t say those words out loud, they can feel the message.

Three simple “quiet moment” rituals to try this week

You don’t need a whole new routine. You just need one or two small places in your day to bring in rest, stillness, reset, quiet, or calm—whatever word feels best in the moment.

Here are three ideas to experiment with this week:

1. The Doorway Reset

A tiny breath before you enter

Pick one doorway you walk through every day—maybe the front door when you come home from work, or the doorway to your child’s room.

Each time you reach that doorway, let it be your reminder:

• Stop for one slow breath.
• Notice your feet on the floor.
• Think, “I’m stepping into this space with calm.”

Then walk through.

Over time, that doorway becomes a spiritual threshold—a place where you gently reset your energy before you bring it into the room with your child.

2. The Snack-Time Quiet Moment

A minute of stillness before eating

Before a snack or meal, invite your child into a very short quiet moment with you. It doesn’t have to be serious or heavy. It might sound like:

“Before we eat, let’s give our bodies a little rest.”

• Everyone puts their hands in their lap.
• You both take three gentle breaths.
• You whisper a simple thank you: “Thank you, body.” “Thank you, food.” “Thank you, light.”

That’s it. Even if it lasts only 30–60 seconds, you’ve just created a tiny tradition of stillness, calm, gratitude, and inner connection.

3. The Bedtime Quiet Light Moment

Ending the day in safety

At bedtime, after the last story is read and the last stuffed animal is in place, turn the lights down slightly and say:

“Let’s have a quiet moment so your body can feel safe and ready to rest.”

You might:

• Place your hand lightly on your child’s back or heart.
• Take a slow breath together.
• Say softly: “Your light is safe here.” “My light is safe here, too.”

This simple ritual can become an anchor of safety your child remembers far into the future—a feeling of being loved, held, and seen at the end of the day.

A gentle reminder: you don’t have to get this perfect

If you’re reading this and thinking, I don’t know if I have time for this, I want you to know: You are not failing if you forget, and you are not failing if some days feel too loud. You are not failing if the quiet moment you pictured ends in giggles or interruptions; you are practicing.

Every time you remember—even once a day, even once a week—to offer your child the gift of a quiet moment, you are re-teaching your nervous system, and theirs, that rest is allowed, stillness is safe, and calm is possible, even in a busy world.

This is spiritual parenting in real life: small, repeated choices to come back to your inner light and help your child feel theirs.

A reflection for you: where could one quiet moment fit?

You don’t need to redesign your whole day. Just consider:

• Where do I feel the most rushed right now—morning, after school, bedtime?
• What is one place in that part of the day where I could add a 30–60 second quiet moment?
• What word feels most like home to me today—rest, stillness, reset, quiet, or calm?

Let that word be your guidepost for the week.

Maybe this week is about “rest.” Next week might be about “reset.” You can let it evolve with you.

A closing note from Miss Light House

The world will always try to pull you into doing more, moving faster, and filling every space. But your soul—and your child’s soul—responds to something much simpler: A quiet breath, a gentle touch, and a soft moment where you come back to yourself. These are the moments that teach your child, on a deep and lasting level: Your light is safe. My light is safe. We can always return to this.

And that is a gift they will carry long after the busy holiday season has passed.

...when loved ones see the world differently

The holidays gather many truths around one table. Favorite recipes share space with old stories, new opinions, and the tender hope that we can be together—really together—without losing ourselves. If this year brings mixed viewpoints or charged topics, take a breath. Your light is safe.

There were times many years ago that I dreaded the holidays because I knew the table might tilt toward politics, religion/spirituality, or money. A week before the holiday, I could already feel the flutter—shoulders creeping up, that little knot whispering, “What if this turns into a whole thing?” I started inventing alternatives: Maybe I’ll just drop off cookies. Maybe it’s safer to keep it short this year. Maybe next time.

I was bracing. Bracing for a comment that might land hard. Bracing for the moment, my voice gets small. Bracing for the tug to defend what’s precious to me. I needed to get this together.  I tried an experiment. I wrote one sentence on a sticky note:

“I choose connection and calm.” I tucked a smooth stone in my pocket. I practiced the 5-3-1 Pause in the driveway—five seconds of breath, three words inside (Light. Peace. Kindness.), one choice—and walked in. Yes, there was a moment. Someone steered into a hot topic. My body lit up like a dashboard. I touched the stone, glanced at the pie, and said gently: 

“I care about you. I’m skipping that topic tonight—pass the rolls?” 

We changed lanes. Later, I was washing dishes with the same special someone, laughing about nothing in particular. The evening wasn’t perfect, but it was human, and I left with a quieter heart and a little more trust. 

What I have learned stays with me every season: avoiding gatherings to dodge discomfort also dodges the chance to practice presence, boundaries, and love. I don’t have to debate to belong. I can choose connection over performance and curiosity over defense.  And leaving early, if needed, is wisdom too. Here's a little tool kit that will make your holiday shine: 

Choose a North Star (1 sentence).

“Tonight, I choose connection and calm.”
Let this guide your responses more than any single comment.
Pack your “energy suitcase.”

• An anchor word: Steady (or any word that feels like home).
   
• A breath pattern: In for 4, out for 6—repeat x3 before you ring the doorbell.
   
• One boundary line: “I’m not discussing that today; I’m here to be with you.”
   

Decide your lanes.

• What I control: my breath, tone, and whether I engage.
   
• What I influence: timing (“happy to share another day”), environment (step outside for air).
   
• What I release: changing someone’s mind in one dinner.
   

Tiny ritual (2 minutes).
Hand to heart. Hand to belly. Whisper three times:

“I am rooted. I am soft. I am spacious.”
 

Bridge questions that cool the heat.

• “What do you love most about that idea?”
   
• “Where did you first learn about this?”
   
• “What would feeling safe look like for you here?”
   

Kind boundaries (copy-ready).

• “Thanks for caring. I’m skipping that topic today—pass the rolls?”
   
• “I hear you. I see it differently, and I’m choosing to not debate tonight.”
   
• “Let’s park this for another time. I want to enjoy being with you.”
  

Remember consent.
Even if someone asks your view, you still get to choose: “Not today, but I’m glad you asked.”

Three notes in your journal (5 minutes).

1. One moment I’m proud of…
    
2. One thing I’ll try differently next time…
    
3. One thing I genuinely enjoyed…
    

Release practice.
Shake out your hands. Imagine a soft lighthouse beam expanding around you and your home: “What is mine, stays. What is not, returns to Love.”

Ripple check.
Did anything linger in your body? Walk, stretch, or take a warm shower. Small actions shift big energy.

Sometimes dialogue unfolds and it’s okay. Try this simple arc:

1. Name humanity: “I care about you.”
    
2. Name difference: “We see this differently.”
    
3. Name a value you share: “We both want our family to feel safe.”
    
4. Name a boundary: “I’m not going point-for-point tonight.”
    
5. Name a bridge: “Another day, I’m open to listening with time and tea.”
    

You might simply say:

“I’m learning new ways to be myself and still belong. I love you. I’m here.”
Belonging that requires you to dim isn’t belonging; it’s auditioning. You don’t have to audition at your own family table. Different viewpoints can be real teachers. They invite us to practice presence, honest boundaries, and soft hearts. As the season unfolds, keep your North Star close and your breath even closer. Your light is safe—at home, on the road, and at the holiday table.

May the light guide you always,

Andra