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

One very special child in my life is 8 and believes in Santa Claus with her whole heart. She also has an elf on the shelf that changes location each evening and is always up to some downright hilarious shenanigans. 

But her friends are starting to talk.

Some are whispering on the playground that Santa isn’t real. Some are loudly declaring, “My parents already told me!” You can almost feel the spell starting to thin around the edges.

And I keep thinking about how big this moment really is.  For her whole life, the adults she trusts most have told her one kind of truth:

“Santa is real. He brings the gifts. The elf is watching.”

At some point soon, maybe probably at the end of this year, that’s going to shift. She’ll be told that the Santa she pictured—the man flying through the sky, landing on rooftops—isn’t literally real after all.

And then, in the same breath, we’ll try to tell her that God is real. That love is everywhere and that the unseen world is still trustworthy.

That’s a lot for one little heart. And let's face it, we've all been through that heartbreak before, whether we've had to tell a child or perhaps we are remembering when we first learned about Santa. This post is my attempt to sit with that moment with honesty and tenderness—and to imagine a way we might walk children through it without breaking the deeper sense of magic and trust they carry inside.

The first big “truth shift.,”

I don’t think the Santa conversation is small. In many ways, it’s a child’s first big “truth shift.”

For years they’ve been invited into:

• Letters to the North Pole
• Cookies arranged on plates
• Half-eaten carrots the next morning
• Footsteps in the snow, glitter by the tree, elves on shelves, Easter bunnies, and tooth fairies

We don’t usually present Santa as “just a fun story.” We present it as the way things are.

And then one day, we say:

“Okay, so… actually, Santa doesn’t come down the chimney. It was us the whole time.”

If we’re not careful, what a child hears underneath that is:

• “So, you lied?”
• “If you weren’t telling the truth about this, what else might not be true?”
• “Can I trust you when you talk about God/Spirit… or heaven… or anything I can’t see?”

It’s not the end of the Santa story that hurts most. It’s the sense that the ground of trust might not be as solid as they thought.

So how do we handle this without collapsing the magic—and without collapsing their trust?

Children live in a bigger kind of truth

One thing that helps is remembering how children experience truth.

For kids, the world is full of:

• Imaginary friends that feel utterly real
• Dreams that feel like places they’ve actually been
• Stories that live in their bodies, not just in their minds

To a child, “truth” isn’t just about facts. Truth is also what is felt.

When a child runs to the tree on Christmas morning and sees the presents, the crumbs, the twinkling lights, their body is lit up with:

• “I am remembered.”
• “Someone thought about me while I slept.”
• “The world can surprise me with goodness.”

Those are true experiences.

They are not fake just because the mechanism behind them is different from what the child imagined. The magic the child felt is not erased by the revelation that it was parents or grandparents or aunties quietly wrapping gifts at midnight.

The question is:

Will we honor that the magic was real?

Or will we toss it away as “just pretend” and leave them feeling a bit foolish for believing in it so deeply?

Santa as a costume for love

There’s a big difference between saying:

“Yeah, none of that was real. We just made it up.”

and saying:

“We created something magical with you, because your childhood is sacred and we wanted you to feel how loved and cherished you are.”

Santa, the elf, the stories—all of that is one way love puts on a costume.

Behind the costume, there is:

• A grown-up staying up late to  set things out “just right”
• Money quietly set aside throughout the year
• A deep wish for a child to feel surprise, delight, and wonder

We don’t lie to hurt them. We participate in a tradition because we want them to experience the world as safe and kind and enchanted for as long as they can.

And as they grow, the invitation shifts from:

• “Believe in this man in the red suit,”
  to
• “Come closer. Let me show you the love underneath the costume.”

A gentler way to tell the truth

When the time comes, I imagine a conversation that sounds something like this:

“When you were little, we started a special Christmas magic with Santa and Molly the elf. Grown-ups all over the world keep these stories going so kids can feel how fun and surprising and loving Christmas can be.

Now that you’re older, you get to be in on the magic with us. The presents may have been from us all along—but the love behind them, the part that wanted you to feel remembered and special? That was always real. That’s the part that never stops.”

This kind of explanation:

• Validates their experience:  “What you felt was real.”
• Names our intention: “We did this out of love, not to trick you.”
• Invites them into a new role: “Now you’re old enough to help make magic for others.”

Instead of the story dying, it changes shape.

They’re no longer just the recipient of the magic. They’re invited to become a carrier of it.

“If you lied about Santa, what about God?”

Underneath the surface, this may be the deeper fear—both for kids and adults.

If Santa isn’t real in the way I thought… what about God? Angels? Heaven? Guides? Souls?

Regardless of your specific beliefs, most of us want children to know that:

• They are loved by something greater.
• There is meaning and connection in this life.
• The unseen isn’t just emptiness.

So how do we separate “Santa isn’t literally real” from “there is nothing beyond what we can see”?

One way is to make a gentle distinction between story and Source.

You might say something like:

“Santa is a story people tell that puts a red coat and a sleigh on really beautiful things—like kindness, giving in secret, and remembering each other.

When people talk about God (or the Universe, or Source), they’re talking about the love itself—the love that makes people want to be kind, to give, to show up for each other.

Santa is a picture of that love. God is the love.”

Santa is a symbol.

God/Source/Spirit is the living presence those symbols point to.

When we name it this way, we’re not asking children to jump from “Santa was fake” to “God is real, just trust me.”

We’re guiding them from one layer of meaning to a deeper one:

• from costume
• to essence.

Making space for hurt feelings

Even with the most loving explanation, a child might still feel sad, angry, or embarrassed.

That doesn’t mean we failed. It means they’re human.

A simple, honest repair might sound like:

“If this makes you feel like we tricked you, I really want to hear that. I’m sorry for any part that feels like a lie. We never wanted to hurt you or make you feel silly. We wanted you to feel magic and joy.

You can ask me anything now. I’ll do my best to be honest with you, even with big questions.”

That kind of moment can deepen trust rather than break it.

The child’s nervous system feels:

• “My feelings matter.”
• “The adults in my life can admit when something is complicated.”
• “I am safe to speak the truth.”

And ironically, this is exactly the kind of relationship that makes it easier for them to trust what we say about God, soul, and the invisible things. Not because we’re perfect, but because we’re willing to be honest and to repair.

The special role of aunties, uncles, and “soul adults.”

If you’re not the parent, you still play a sacred role.

As an aunt, uncle, godparent, or “soul adult,” you can be:

• A soft-landing place if they’re upset or confused
• Someone who reflects their wisdom and dignity
• A voice that honors both the loss and the deeper magic

You might say something like:

“You know what I think? I think kids are some of the wisest people on the planet. You knew how real the magic felt. That feeling was true.

As we get older, we learn that some things are stories that show us truths, instead of facts that work like math problems. That doesn’t make you silly. It makes you loving, and hopeful, and wonderfully human.”

That tells them: Your light is safe here. Your belief didn’t make you foolish; it made you open-hearted.

Letting the magic grow up with them

The day a child learns “Santa isn’t real” doesn’t have to be the day magic dies.

It can be:

• The day they learn that love has been moving behind the scenes for them all along.
• The day they’re invited into the circle of people who create that magic for others.
• The day they’re gently guided from a story about a man in a red suit toward a deeper truth: that the world is still full of unseen love.

As they step over that threshold, we can stand there with them and say:

“Yes, the story is changing. But the love under it hasn’t changed at all.

Your questions are welcome. Your feelings are welcome.

Your light is safe. Always.”

And maybe that’s one of the most important lessons we can give a child—about Santa, about God, and about life:

Stories may change shape. Costumes may come and go.

But the love that wanted you to feel remembered, delighted in, and deeply cherished?

That was real.

That is real.

And it always will be.

May the light guide you always,

Andra