A Letter on Being Pulled in Two Directions
My Dearest Friend
It’s late. The kind of late when the house finally exhales—kids asleep, lights dimmed, the soft glow of the tree pooling across the floor. December has already begun its familiar swirl, but here in this small pocket of quiet, nothing is demanding anything of me yet.
I sit for a moment longer than I mean to. Not because I am sad, and not because I am overwhelmed, but because this is the first stillness I’ve had to consider what this season might actually look like. Every year seems to ask something different of us—movement, rest, resilience, flexibility. And here I am again, feeling that familiar question rise: What kind of Christmas will we have this year?
I think about the years I spent oceans away from family, the years I rushed home out of obligation, the years I stayed put because life had already taken enough from me. I remember the ache of being together with some of the people I love and apart from others—and how military life makes that ache so routine I sometimes forget to name it.
But tonight, in this quiet, both truths rise gently: I miss the people who are far away, and I am grateful for the ones who are here. I long for the comfort of familiar voices, and I long for rest just as honestly. And instead of trying to force those feelings into neat corners, I let them sit side by side.
Maybe that is what this season has become for me—a place where both things can be true without cancelling each other out.
The Lesson
There is no right answer to the question of where you “should” be this December. There is only the truth of what your family needs, and the quiet courage it takes to honor that.
Sometimes the people who are present are enough. Sometimes staying put is enough. Sometimes going home is necessary. Sometimes choosing differently than last year is the most honest thing you can do.
You don’t have to earn your rest. You don’t have to justify your longing. You don’t have to explain the ache of being both together and apart.
To the Spouse Standing in the Middle
If you’re holding a calendar in one hand and guilt in the other, I want you to know this: feeling torn does not mean you are doing anything wrong. It means you love deeply in more than one direction.
Maybe this is the year you stay where you are—because your spirit needs stillness, because your children need routine, because you need one holiday that isn’t shaped by airports or expectations. That choice is not selfish. It is human.
Maybe this is the year you book the flight, even if it wasn’t the plan—because something in you knows you need to be there, because home is calling in a way you can’t ignore. That choice is not weakness. It is love.
The truth is simple, even if the season isn’t: your presence, wherever you place it, is enough.
May this December bring you the relief of knowing that your choice—whichever one you make—is allowed to be the right one.
