Let Your Heart be Light

I still get just as excited for Christmas as I did when I was a little girl. I’m excited in a different way and for different reasons, but I still get excited. Like many children, my Christmases were filled with the thrill of anticipation as I waited to see what Santa Claus would bring me. I would leave treats out for him and his reindeer, and I would be ecstatic when I would find crumbs of cookies and oats in the morning. I couldn’t even sleep through Christmas Eve night. I’d wake up at 4:00 AM and look at all of the goodies in my stocking (because that’s all we were allowed to open before Mom and Dad woke up). It would take only a minute or two for me to sift through the tiny trinkets and Japanese candies, so I’d carefully pack every item back into the stocking the way it was, hang it on the shelf, and try to sleep. But as that would inevitably fail, I’d end up unpacking and packing up my stocking at least three times over before I’d finally wake up my older brothers and beg them to come look at their stockings, too.

On the Christmases that we visited my grandparents in Utah, I would worry that Santa wouldn’t know where we had gone, and I’d make sure to write several letters to let him know what our holiday plans were. I don’t know how it took me so long to notice that my responses from Santa were in my grandpa’s handwriting. Their one-story brown brick home in Orem was the most magical place in the world to me. Their backyard was almost an acre, which meant that when it snowed I could stay outside all day and still not be able to fill the field with snow people. I always wanted my Christmases to be exactly how I saw them in the movies: bright and white. I lived in southern Arizona as a little girl, and I would pray every day in the winter for snow to fall. Now that I live in Utah, almost every Christmas is a white one, but I never stop loving the snow. I hear my fellow Utahns complain about the snow, how they long for the warm, sunny days of summer, how much of a nuisance it is—and I don’t really understand. How could anyone prefer stifling, blinding heat over the magic of the dusted trees and mountains? I would much rather be bundled up in a coat and gloves than be wearing a t-shirt and sandals. The first snow of the season is one of my favorite days of the year. Everything feels brand new: covered in a cool, white blanket, glowing in the moonlight, and so peacefully quiet. It makes me feel like I can finally take a deep breath for the first time in months.

And yet, this year, the first snow felt bittersweet to me. Waking up the morning after Thanksgiving wasn’t as peaceful and joy-filled as I wished it would be. I didn’t feel the magic. All of my stresses and problems seemed especially dark. I looked out of my old bedroom window at the stunning view of my parent’s yard, all showered in glittery white snowflakes, and I didn’t feel excited for Christmas the way I usually do. I was tinged with the dark-grey sadness of my depression that I’ve been struggling with for several years now. This semester of school has been as disappointing as all of the ones before it, if not more so. At the start of every semester I get a bit hopeful as I try to brush off the fear of failure, and I think to myself, “Maybe this time it will be better. Maybe this will be the one semester where the ground doesn’t drop out from below my feet and I finally feel like I’m getting a grasp on my life. Maybe this time.” And then the same thing happens again. The hope disappears as those feelings of failure creep back in and everything seems to fall apart. I feel everything and nothing all at once.

This semester I have felt especially lonely and disconnected from my faith and from my family, even though my antidepressant has been working better than ever before. Most years I get a new boost of energy as autumn finally comes and begins to fall into winter—it’s my very favorite time of the year—and the depression fades a bit as the joy of the holidays approaches. This year, I haven’t felt that yet.

Something about depression that isn’t talked about enough is that if you’re religious, your depression can stop you from connecting with it. It’s as if your brain shuts off the phone lines between you and higher power. If you’re a member of the Church, depression can stop you from feeling the Spirit. And it is not your fault, but sometimes you feel like it is. You don’t feel anything when you pray, so prayer starts to feel like a burden. And no matter what anyone tells you, no amount of prayer or scripture study will take away your depression. And at a time like Christmas, when you’re supposed to feel especially grateful and especially connected to God and Jesus Christ, not feeling that way just leads to guilt and mourning.

Struggling with mental health can make you feel like the biggest failure and like your life is spilling out of your hands. Feeling peace and security in a support system is one of the most difficult things to find, and it’s one of the things that can impact you the most. And during the holidays, when everyone is feeling joy and spending sweet time with their families, it’s hard not to feel totally lonely.

Lately I’ve been extremely nostalgic about my childhood. Seeing videos of small children on Instagram makes me cry because I miss being their age, so pure and happy and unaware of the sadness in the world. I can’t seem to stop looking at pictures of myself as a little girl, confident and joyful. I was without worry and full of hope. I was sassy and vibrant and creative, always covered in pink and sparkles. I really believed that I could take on the world, and I had a million beautiful images of what my future would look like. I hadn’t lost anything or anyone yet. Christmases were filled with my favorite movies and gingerbread houses and pretty lights and trees, holiday crafts at school and music and laughter. And Christmas Day my year would be made as I ripped open wrapping paper to find the loveliest gift.

When I was five, I received a beautiful Snow White Barbie. One year I was gifted an American Girl Doll from Santa, which I had been wanting for years (Rebecca, who was from early 1900s New York City, if anyone was wondering). When I was eight I got earrings, and I was thrilled that I could finally get my ears pierced. I ended up waiting until the next summer to get it done because I was too scared. I received handmade purses and dolls from my grandma, and one year, my very own sewing kit. Another year I got a purple plastic ballet barre that came with a DVD instruction video, so I could practice my dancing at home. 

I don’t have any of those old toys. I’m sure I gave my American Girl Doll away to one of my mom’s friend’s daughters, but I can’t remember who. I think my ballet barre was donated when we moved. I vaguely remember donating my Barbies and their accessories. And my 2007 Shimmer Princess Snow White Barbie that I was absolutely sure I had kept in a bin under my bed, I cannot find. I have no memory of giving her away. I am devastated that I don’t have a single one of my old dolls. I don’t know what I was thinking, giving them away. They’re just things, I know, but still, if I could turn back time and tell my tween self while she was spring cleaning that “no, you are going to want that Snow White Barbie when you get older,” and “it’s stupid to get rid of Rebecca, especially because they are going to change her outfit and that little red dress and button-up patent leather shoes are going to be worth a fortune one day,” I would. 

If only I could turn back time.

I used to think that it’s foolish to want to turn back time. Your memories and mistakes make you who you are. You learn from them. You grow. You shouldn’t want to do anything differently in your life. And hanging onto regret is an awful way to live. But still, I wish that I could go back to when I was four years old and play with my dog again and stop yelling at my brother and bask in that pure happiness that I used to be able to feel. I wish that I could have Thanksgiving dinner with my Great Aunt Bonna at her fancy country club in Phoenix again. She died when I was in second grade, and that was the first time I ever lost someone. Oh, how I wish I could see her again and tell her how fabulous she was. I want to tell my friend Faith that I love her and give her one more hug. She was, and is, the most beautiful guardian angel. And I really wish that I could go back to my grandparents’ house. I can see it so clearly from memory now, but I worry that one day my memory will fade. I want to walk around my grandma’s sewing room again and listen to The Carpenters with her and share a bowl of ramen, just one more time. I want to feel the scratchy living room rug under my feet and sit at their kitchen counter and watch Japanese game shows. I want to build a snowman in their field and play with their dogs and look at old pictures and go to church with them. I want to say goodbye. I want to tell them “thank you.” I know that I already said it a million times, but I want to say it again.  This will be the first Christmas without either of them, and I would give anything to spend one more holiday at their house.

Grief is such a strange, awful feeling, even when you do believe in heaven. Right now I’m grieving for the loved ones I’ve lost and for the person I used to be. I’m grieving for my Baba, my Papa, for my childhood dog, my aunt Bonna, for Faith. I’m grieving for my little girl self and the way she used to feel. I’m grieving for the student I once was and I’m grieving for all of the things I used to be able to do. I’m grieving for the relationships I used to have, before I became an adult and everything got so complicated. I just want the world to stop turning so I can take a breath.

To all those who are grieving, finding their faith, or struggling with their mental health this Christmas, I love you. To everyone with a family member who has a mental health condition, to everyone with a friend who is grieving right now, check in on them this holiday season. 

I’m still excited for Christmas this year. It probably won’t live up to my movie expectations, but that’s okay. I’ll be feeling every emotion, from joy to grief to apathy, but the semester will be over and I will get a break from worrying about my GPA and attendance. There will probably be tough conversations about my health, and conversations about politics that I will try to avoid, but that’s okay, too. I’ll be listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack and Bing Crosby on repeat, and there will be crafts and Hallmark movies and way too much sugar, but I don’t care. I’ll pray for snow, and maybe I’ll open up a Snow White Barbie doll on Christmas morning. My family will watch a nativity movie, which will probably make me cry because the baby Jesus will be so sweet and pure and it will make me think of baby me. And by New Year’s Day, I will be filled with hope again. Maybe next semester will be better. For now, I wish you all a lovely, white Christmas. Xoxo