Homes for the Holidays Part 2!

This morning, while getting ready for work, I pulled on a knit turtleneck in a bright, unapologetic red...the kind of red that only feels wearable in December, like it’s part of some unspoken seasonal agreement. As I pulled it over my head, I thought about the small, quiet ways I try to feel festive and cheery all month long. And just then, I was reminded of a blog post I wrote around this time last year called Homes for the Holidays. Interestingly, I wrote and published that on December 17, 2024. How KisMet!!!

It was a reflection on my experience navigating the holidays as a divorced, single mom, co-parent hybrid—an identity that doesn’t fit neatly into the greeting cards that are currently on the market.  Writing it was deeply therapeutic for me, but what surprised me most was how much it resonated with so many of you. Our dear friends and customers.

One of the things I love most about this little business is that in the beginning, many of our first customers were quite literally our friends. They supported us because they loved us even without knowing if our products were any good. And over time, as the word spread, so many of our customers became our friends. Real ones. The kind you feel proud of, and talk to regularly. It genuinely feels like a sisterhood exists here.

We follow you on Instagram, and we’re truly happy when we see you get engaged, pregnant, promoted, relocated, or finally post that dream car you’ve been manifesting since forever. We celebrate the new houses, the new babies, the new puppies, the glow ups and milestones and ands and ands and ands.

But what about the stuff that hits hard—the stuff no one posts?

No one uploads a photo of themselves with the caption:
“OMG I think I want a divorce but I’m not sure, I’m really unhappy, might delete later!!”

Maybe someone somewhere has. But it’s certainly not the norm.

This time of year has a way of cracking things open—even for the most stable seeming, nuclear families in our orbit.  For me, the holidays have always illuminated the things we politely avoid the rest of the year: the empty seats left by loved ones who have passed away, the quiet marital fractures that feel louder under festive lights.  The guilt, the money stress, the mental gymnastics of comparing what you’re buying—or not buying, doing—or not doing—with everyone else on your social media feed.

It can be a lot. And being a single parent during the holidays (or being married but doing everything yourself) can amplify all of it. It can feel like the rug of joy has been pulled from under you, if you let it.

On this exact day last year—December 17, 2024—I published Homes for the Holidays. After I pulled on that red sweater this morning, I went back and reread it, fully intending to reshare it with a caption like In case you need this <3 or In case you’re new here—something soft and engaging to remind the dear ladies that follow us that they aren't alone. I know some read that last year with every intention of walking away from their marriage in the new year, and I know some of you actually did.

But as I read it, I realized something: while so much of it still resonates (it remains the most commented-on post I’ve ever written), a lot has changed too.

A lot can change in one year.

Yes, the silence of an empty house on Christmas Day can still feel deafening. Packing your kids into coats and boots on Christmas morning so they can celebrate with their other parent is a kind of heartbreak I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Yes, we still go hard with Elf on the Shelf. Yes, we still thoughtfully pick and wrap gifts for my co-parent and his partner and his family, because I believe it matters for my kids to see and experience that. And yes, I still believe that time heals all wounds.

But there are parts of that original post that are no longer true for me—and I’m holding space for that.

Navigating life, motherhood, dating, career building, and the pursuit of peace after divorce is not a straight line. It’s a never ending quest—one that requires grace, humor, and a willingness to evolve. Did I think I was ever going to be a 34 year old unmarried single Mom? No, I did not envision that for myself. When I got married and had my babies I was all in. And I'll tell you this: I could be married or wifed up for fun right now. I have actively (even repeatedly) chosen not to be. But even when it's your choice to be alone, it can still feel really hard. And a little empty, especially this time of year.

I pride myself on being a real girls’ girl. A hide-the-body girl. A call-me-anytime-of-day-or-night girl. I have a close knit group of friends that I cherish—most of whom I’ve had for over a decade, some closer to two (and I’ve just realized I aged myself, so BRB while I chug some retinol).

 I’m the kind of woman other women come to for advice— they just do. They ask me about acne and boob jobs. Sometimes they ask for legal advice (whether or not I can give it is another story—my practice area is niche). If I can’t help, I refer them to someone I trust. They ask how I navigate single motherhood, how to feel okay after divorce, what skincare products actually work, what belongs in a makeup bag when you’re trying to feel like yourself again. I’ve even been asked what exactly I ask my stylist for at hair appointments. It's nice to feel needed and my opinion respected. And I love the girlhood that exists in my world. 

This isn’t some grandiose illusion I’ve created. I believe this is all because I’m transparent about how I move through life. I don’t do much in silence. I will never be mysterious or nonchalant. I am, in fact, the most chalanted person who has ever chalanted. But because of these connections, I feel a responsibility to use my voice for good—to talk about the uncomfortable things. And right now, divorce and separation are very much having their moment. I always say, I was the first in my circle to get divorced, but I won't be the last. 

Here’s the thing: leaving your partner in July feels okay. Exhilarating, even. The weather’s warm, you feel great in a bikini, patio drinks flow freely when the kids are with their other parent, and the belly laughs catching up with your girlfriends feel medicinal. When you do have the kids, you’re soaking up sun, lingering at the park until dusk, saying yes to ice cream dates on repeat. Life feels good. Secure. Romanticized, even.

But when December 1st rolls around?

Knock knock, bitch!!!

Those feelings of certainty have a way of punching you square in the face and making you question every choice you’ve ever made.

 December doesn’t care how confident you felt in July. December arrives with shorter days and longer (COLDER) nights and a calendar full of traditions that suddenly feel out of touch. It asks questions you thought you’d already answered. It asks repeatedly:

 Are you sure?

And despite all  of the fun you had in the months previous, the answer wobbles.

If you're stuck on remembering how things used to be—not necessarily better, but fuller. More predictable. That's really valid. There’s grief in that, even when you know leaving was the right thing to do. Especially when you know leaving was the right thing to do. Two truths can exist at once: you can be proud and sure of yourself and still miss parts of what was.

Acceptance, I’m learning, is wildly unglamorous (new word!). It doesn’t arrive in a cinematic moment in a perfect outfit. It shows up in your oldest sweatpants. It sounds like, Okay… this is what we’re doing now. It’s choosing not to spiral when plans shift, letting traditions evolve without narrating it as a personal failure, and realizing that peace  looks suspiciously like boredom. It's actually kinda................... nice. 

Which brings me to home..

Home to me used to feel like a very specific idea. Very one size fits all, One address, one set of matching stockings, one way things were “supposed” to look. Now it feels DIFFERENT. Friendlier. Home is wherever the vibe is safe. It’s the corner of a sectional couch everyone fights over. It’s the way the house smells like coffee in the morning and popcorn at night. It's watching your kids quietly engaged in their own activities in the living room and being thankful they don't feel like they need to hide in their bedrooms. It’s imperfect and a little chaotic and it works.

I’ve also discovered that there’s something sweet and satisfying about building something smaller and more intentional. When things get stripped back, you notice what actually matters. You stop chasing big, performative joy. It's not real or sustainable. That house of cards crumbles eventually (believe me). The people online who act like their marriages and lives are perfect, with their gorgeous spotless houses and their over the top traditions, you know the ones you follow even though you feel slightly triggered by them? A reminder to you, THAT'S NOT REAL! That was me once. Always overcompensating with the best of the best of everything, the newest, the fanciest, the vacations. All in an effort to distract from what was actually happening. The target audience to distract? Your own damn self. 

If you're reading this with tense shoulders and a louder than usual inner dialogue, wondering if you made the right choice (or if you’re about to) I promise you’re not alone. You’re not behind. Nothing is wrong with you. I deeply admire people who choose to leave what no longer serves them, because that kind of decision hurts all at once. But it’s  braver and more honest than staying and making smaller, sustained sacrifices that slowly numb you over time.

This advice isn't the magical cure but throw on that ridiculous sweater and get your nails done a fiery red anyway. Those small things honour the quiet bravery it takes to keep showing up. This version of home might be different—but it’s still warm. And it’s still yours. You're still you. And you're doing amazing sweetie. 

Kait