Permission to be Human

The holiday season arrives each year dressed in bright lights and confident cheer, announcing itself as a time when everyone is supposed to feel warm, grateful, and whole. Songs insist on joy. Social media posts glow with parties and matching sweaters. Calendars fill with gatherings and traditions. But sometimes this season quietly overlaps with something much heavier: reality—illness, exhaustion, and a sadness that feels out of place among all the celebration.

Being sick during the holidays carries a particular loneliness. Sickness already narrows the world—your body asks you to slow down, to cancel plans, to listen closely to discomfort. When it coincides with a season that emphasizes togetherness and energy, that narrowing can feel like exclusion and loneliness. You may watch celebrations from a distance, physically or emotionally unable to participate. Even minor illnesses can feel larger in December, as if they are stealing something precious and irreplaceable.

There is also the emotional weight of feeling “down” when happiness seems mandatory. Feeling anything less than cheerful during the holidays often brings guilt along with it—the sense that you are wasting something special, that you should be more thankful, more cheerful, more present. This pressure can make sadness feel like a personal failure rather than a human response. It can be difficult to admit you are struggling when everything around you insists this is the season of joy.

And so a cycle forms. When the body is weak or in pain, the mind grows heavy. When the mind is heavy, the body feels even more tired. Days blur together. Things that once brought comfort and excitement—decorating, cooking, visiting—may feel like an extra chore. Instead of anticipation, there is endurance. Instead of celebration, there’s perseverance. 

A few nights ago, I woke in the darkness with intense back pain. I rolled carefully in bed, trying not to wake Aaron. He has been especially busy at work with end-of-year planning, and I didn’t want to disturb his sleep. As the night went on, I found myself in pain and needing the restroom every thirty minutes. I had no choice in the matter—despite all my effort, my restlessness woke Aaron. Though I knew what was happening, I didn’t want to admit I needed help. If I was sick and went to the hospital, there was a real chance I could end up admitted. And that would ruin Christmas for the whole family. So, I convinced him I could wait it out.

By morning, I felt better and proudly announced to my family, “I passed a kidney stone last night.” I assumed the worst was behind me. The next day we went holiday shopping, watched a movie, and I cuddled my granddaughter—quietly congratulating myself for getting through that awful night without intervention.

The following evening, after a beautiful Christmas Sunday at church, the pain returned. Slowly at first, then steadily worsening. As it intensified, so too did the realization that I needed help. A fever followed, and the night became a long stretch of pain and discomfort. Again, I tried not to wake Aaron. He had client appointments the next day, along with a Christmas lunch for his employees. How could I interrupt that?

By morning, he insisted on driving me to the emergency room. I urged Aaron to leave and attend to his commitments—I was trying to be strong. After tests confirmed a kidney stone and a kidney infection, and after receiving IV antibiotics, to my relief, I was discharged. Without a car to drive myself home, I wandered the hospital after stopping at the pharmacy, waiting for Aaron to finish and come pick me up.

A hospital during the holidays is an interesting place. In the midst of suffering—patients arriving and leaving with varying levels of anxiety, pain, and sadness—there are Christmas trees, ribbons, and people dressed in holiday cheer. The contrast can feel jarring. In all the noise and festivity of Christmas, the quiet plight of the sick can feel overlooked.

But as I waited, I witnessed something unexpected.

Near the main entrance, a group of hospital employees—some wearing Santa hats—gathered around the information desk. They were visibly excited, anticipating something. A delivery was coming. “There are thirty-two more boxes!” someone exclaimed. “That’s about sixteen hundred total!” another replied. Their faces lit up with amazement.

Soon, volunteers arrived pushing carts stacked high with boxes. Inside were children’s books—gifts for children spending the holidays in the hospital. But the books weren’t the real gift.

The real gift was written on faces. The volunteers delivering the boxes and the staff receiving them glowed with joy, excitement, and hope—hope that their efforts might brighten someone else’s holiday, even in a small way.

Last year, to mark the first anniversary of my heart transplant, I donated fifty satin pillowcases to the hospital for transplant patients. Each one was wrapped with a bow and included a note of encouragement—something I knew would have lifted my own spirits during my hospital stays. I never saw them distributed. I never received a thank-you. Yet the act of giving brought me immense joy. The benefactor became the recipient.

But acts of charity during the holidays don't have look grand—humble, simple things work just as well.  Things as simple as patience in a checkout line, anonymous generosity, choosing compassion when it would be easier to rush past all help in little-yet-persuasive ways. These moments don’t erase pain or sickness, but they remind us that gentleness still exists. And sometimes that's all we need to restore our hope. Because sometimes hope doesn't come from summoning strength within ourselves, but from witnessing how willingly others offer theirs.

The holidays are often portrayed as a dreamscape of cheer and togetherness. But in real life, holiday magic doesn’t always arrive as excitement or optimism. More often, it arrives quietly—in kindness witnessed when you are still enough to notice, in generosity unfolding around you, in the trust that this moment is not permanent even when you cannot yet imagine what comes next. Hope doesn’t require certainty; it only asks for openness.

Here I offer permission to be human. If this holiday season finds you ill or feeling down, let that be okay. Let it be a chapter, not a verdict. Care for yourself in the ways you can. Accept care when it is offered. Release the idea that you must perform joy to deserve this season. Even now—especially now—you are allowed to be human.

And when you look ahead, past the decorations and the calendar and this heavy moment, remember this: the light you are waiting for does not disappear when you are sick or sad. It shows itself in generosity, in patience, in quiet acts of care. The holidays will pass. Your strength will return. Lighter days are ahead. Hope is already here, quietly at work, even when all you can do is rest.