The holidays are closing in, and it feels like I can’t breathe. It’s still October—Halloween hasn’t even passed—but everywhere I look, stores are rolling out Christmas decorations like we’re supposed to dive headfirst into the holiday spirit. It’s all too much, too soon. The aisles are filled with plastic wreaths and Santa hats, glitter snowflakes tangled with leftover costumes, and cheerful music that feels like nails on a chalkboard. I hate it. I hate how the world just rushes ahead, expecting everyone to keep up with its forced cheer. It’s like the universe forgot that some of us are barely holding on, that for some of us, the holidays aren’t something to look forward to—they’re a reminder of everything we’ve lost.
I’ve never been a fan of the holidays to begin with. Growing up, they were always chaotic and uncomfortable, just another reminder of everything my family never got right. But when I had kids of my own, I wanted to change that for them. I wanted to make it special, even if it wasn’t special to me. And for the past nine years, I managed to do just that—because Kingston loved Christmas. He loved it so much that I couldn’t help but try. No matter how much I hated the mess of decorations or the clutter it created, I would pull out every stop for him. If all we had was a small patio or a front porch, I’d still pack it with inflatable reindeer and light-up snowmen. We had decorations bigger than the front door, and I strung up so many lights I’m amazed I never blew a fuse or set the building on fire. I did it for him—because his joy made it worth it. His excitement was contagious.
But this year is different. This year, he’s not here. And without Kingston, everything about the holidays feels unbearable. Christmas was his favorite, but it’s just noise to me now—empty, hollow noise. I can’t take hearing people talk about their travel plans or what gifts are on their wish lists. I can’t stand watching Zuma make her lists either, scribbling down every toy and game she wants, as if Kingston’s absence isn’t already a hole we’re both falling through. It makes me want to run and hide from it all.
The thought of getting through Christmas without Kingston is crushing. It’s our first one without him, and everything about it feels wrong. I told Jaden I need him here, that Zuma and I need to stay in LA this year—in the same space where Kingston spent his last moments. But Jaden doesn’t understand. He wants to stay in Seattle, and no matter how much I try to explain, it feels like I’m speaking another language. He can’t grasp why I’m so insistent, why being together matters so much right now. I need us to stay close to the place where Kingston’s presence still lingers. I need to hold onto that connection, to stay where I can still feel him. I don’t want to leave this house, this space, this feeling—not yet. Not this year.
I love all three of my kids with every part of me, but I love them each so differently, in ways that are as unique as they are. Jaden, Zuma, and Kingston each connect with me in their own ways, and each of them carries pieces of me. Zuma and Jaden both share my temper and the same tendency to “go dark” when life takes its twists and turns. They love so deeply, care so fiercely, and I see that passion in them—a reflection of myself. But unlike me, they’re perfectionists, holding everything inside until it’s too much. It’s like shaking a soda bottle until the pressure builds so high that it finally explodes, and only then do they let it all out. They deal with life in bursts, letting the emotions pour out all at once before they can breathe again.
But Kingston was different. He never saw the darkness that the rest of us do. Even though he was handed the most unfair life imaginable, even though his path should have been terrifying and lonely, he never lived that way. He was always the light, leading the way through what should have been hell on earth. The unknown, the fear, the pain—none of it touched him the way it touches the rest of us. It’s like he knew something we didn’t. His light shined so brightly, like the North Star, guiding not only himself but everyone around him. He knew exactly where he was headed, and he walked that path with love and fearlessness. He never wavered. While the rest of us stumble in the dark, Kingston never even noticed it—because his light made it impossible for darkness to exist.
Without Kingston’s light here on earth, I feel lost. I don’t know how to let my light shine the way his did. And I see that same struggle in Zuma and Jaden. They’re caught in the same shadow that I am, and I know I need to lead them through it. I know I have to show them how to use their light, the way Kingston did. But it’s hard. It feels impossible. Kingston made it look so easy. And now that he’s gone, the three of us are left here, trying to figure out how to move forward without him, without the light that made everything feel right.
This festive season that Kingston made so bright and joyful—it just isn’t. We haven’t figured out how to light the way for ourselves without him. And honestly, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do what he did. No one is listening to me. I’m just mom, trying to hold together my hurting kids, and to them, it probably sounds like guilt. But it’s not guilt. It’s love. It’s survival. I need us to be together because I don’t know how to walk through this season without Kingston lighting the way—and I don’t want us to walk through it alone.
I know I’ll have to try. For Zuma, for Jaden, for Kingston. I’ll wrap the presents, hang the lights, and put up the tree, even though it feels like going through the motions. Zuma deserves a Christmas that feels good, even if it’s hard for me to find the magic in it. But no amount of twinkling lights or decorations will ever make it feel the way it used to when Kingston was here. His spark is gone, and the light will always feel a little dimmer without him.
This is what grief looks like—messy, exhausting, and impossible to escape. The world itself is dimmer, so this year, on my Christmas list, my only wish would be for “all is calm, all is bright,” for a glimmer of joy to carry me through the silent nights.
