A Letter on Making Traditions Your Own
My Dearest Friend,
When I was a child, Halloween carried with it a certain enchantment, not from lavish spectacles, but from the quiet rituals that stitched themselves into memory. We would wander the streets in costumes hidden beneath coats against the Midwestern chill, and return with cold fingers and flushed cheeks to the glow of home. There, my mother set before us steaming bowls of pumpkin soup, crowned with roasted pumpkin seeds from the jack-o’-lanterns we had carved. And then came the great delight: all the candy poured together into one large pumpkin-shaped basket, a communal treasure from which each of us claimed our favorites. It was no grand affair, yet it felt like belonging.
Years and many duty stations later, my family’s traditions have taken on their own shapes. The pumpkin soup of my childhood has shifted into pumpkin ravioli with honeyed goat cheese, or perhaps a grilled cheese kissed with pumpkin butter beside a simple soup. We wander the base neighborhoods in the company of neighbors, bowls left behind with friends to hand out treats, and we join the merry procession of children shrieking under porch lights. Bun—ever the director of our small troupe—chooses our family costume theme with care: Pokémon, Mario, Harry Potter, PJ Masks. And Bean, still toddling at the edges of memory-making, slips easily into whatever role her brother assigns, delighting us all the same. Her own traditions are only just beginning to take shape, reminding me that as one child grows beyond certain rituals, another is only just discovering them.
Over time, I have come to understand that traditions, too, must gently yield as life demands. Some years we embrace them fully, reveling in every detail. Other years, like the one when I was heavily pregnant with Bean and carrying the weight of a long TDY alone, tradition meant nothing more than spreading pumpkin butter on bread and calling it enough. And it was. One day Bun will no longer wish for family costumes, and while that will close a sweet chapter, it will also mark the beginning of a new one—proof that traditions grow and shift alongside our children. And that is the heart of it: traditions are not cages, but moorings, threads that hold us for a moment in the ebb and flow of this life. They remind us of who we are, even as they change to meet us where we are.
The Lesson
Traditions do not lose their worth when they alter. Their magic lies not in perfect replication, but in the spirit of connection they preserve. To simplify is not to fail. To evolve is not to let go. What matters is the way these rituals root us in a season, offering steadiness in a world that is ever shifting.
To the Spouse Learning to Let Go
Letting go of traditions as they once were does not mean losing them; it means allowing them to breathe and become what your family needs today. Perhaps the costume once chosen for all will one day be chosen only for one, and that shift will hold its own sweetness. Perhaps the candy is whatever could be found in time, the decorations fewer than before, the pumpkin nothing more elaborate than butter spread on bread. These changes do not diminish the heart of the tradition; they reveal its resilience. Your family will remember not the flawless replication of the past, but the laughter echoing down the street, the warmth of your presence, and the joy of being together in whatever form the season takes. That, dear friend, is more than enough.
