Basking in the glow

I finally did it. After three years of (annoyingly) talking about it with friends, co-workers and family, I purchased an LED version of the multi-colored incandescent bulbs that were widely used in holiday seasons before the 2000s. Touted on their website as the “superior LED Christmas bulbs that look just like vintage incandescent,” I paid a comical amount of money for both a classic and mod-colored set of lights. Although the price tag originally kept them in my mind’s shopping cart for years, it wasn’t until the end of 2024 that I gave myself permission to buy them. Now that I’m beginning to reflect on the last year more wholly and openly, I don’t believe it was simply the price tag that kept me from purchasing them.

In 2024, I skipped routine health and wellness checks. I became sedentary and mostly inactive. I stopped scheduling my weekly therapy appointments. I stopped budgeting. I missed a college friend’s wedding party. But why? It would be easy to think that this drop in self-care or connection occurred because of the election. Or that it occurred after the increasing possibility of a nuclear threat from Russia. Or that it occurred after another year of worsening prospects for the climate. Instead, it was happening despite them. As much as these world-scale events instilled dread into my late-night thoughts, I knew that I shouldn’t “worry about them,” as I had no control over them. But it was this lack of control that made them so frightening. Like TV static underscoring the background of my life, my sense of powerlessness felt like a constant, low hum. Every now and again, the sound became deafening. Becoming disinterested in myself became a means of tuning it out. 

Despite a pessimistic and cynical view of the world, something unexpected also happened. I found myself leaning into joy. It started to manifest when I began to decorate my office with seasonal decor for the first time ever. I started with spooky Halloween accoutrements and plug-in Jack-O-Lanterns, which then easily transitioned into winter with a few Santa hats and flameless candles. It reminded me of my grade school classrooms, which changed with the seasons by the hands of caring teachers. I planned to string the new Christmas lights I ordered along the edges of my office’s drop ceiling. However, once they arrived and I plugged them in, I felt disappointed. I perceived a slight coolness in their color that differed from the warm glow radiating from the ones in my childhood memories. What else was I searching for in them? Why were these lights not enough? I then realized that I had given them the impossible task of taking me back to a time when the world felt safe and calm – when it felt easy to dream.

I know the lights won’t bring back old moments of joy, but I can begin manifesting new ones now. When I brought them home to put on my tree, I mixed and matched the bulbs until they were a unique color combo. What initially felt lackluster in my office finally started to give off the glow of yesteryear. Over the holiday break, I laughed with child-like delight after making my first batch of stovetop popcorn. I saw “Wicked” so many times that I’m wondering if it’s become a problem – not that I care if it is. I cried more during the second episode of the new season of “Queer Eye” than I had in all previous eight seasons. 

For this next year, I feel as if I’m preparing to drive through a snowstorm. If the tires lose traction on the road of my life’s journey, I want to be as alert and connected to myself as possible so that I can correct it if need be. Although I begin to scare myself if I start thinking about the flurry of snow that looks and sounds like TV static, I look forward to the new moments of joy – and the lingering afterglow from my new lights – that keep my hands warm as they grip the steering wheel.