Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. I’m not particularly religious, but the lights, music, decorations, and spirit of giving have always made the season magical for me. I dreamed of one day having a house full of kids to share it with, and when I met my wife, Becky, I thought that dream had finally come true. She already had five children, and I had one. Becky was raised Mormon, so holidays for her had always been simple and practical, while my childhood Christmases were overflowing with gifts and excitement.
Growing up, my family opened presents on Christmas Eve, and more appeared from “Santa” the next morning. Later I learned that many of those gifts came from local churches helping families like ours, but the magic never faded. Because of that, I promised myself that if I ever had enough, I would give back — and give big. Becky’s kids were used to three thoughtful gifts: something to wear, something they wanted, and something they needed. I respected that, but I also hoped our first Christmas together would feel full and joyful, the beginning of our blended family finding its rhythm.
Just a few months into our relationship, tragedy struck. On December 7, 2018, Becky’s fourth child was in a terrible car accident and became an organ donor. We had never even shared one Christmas together untouched by grief. After her daughter passed away, I became even more determined to create something beautiful for the kids, not to erase the pain, but to offer moments of light. I don’t believe small Christmases mean bad parenting — but coming from poverty myself, those big celebrations were some of the happiest memories I carried.
My dad raised my little brother and me alone. He is a trans man and faced judgment and limited work opportunities, so money was often scarce. Some nights we ate ramen, oatmeal, or ketchup sandwiches. Still, every Christmas morning there were presents spilling out from under the tree. We didn’t know until we were older how hard he worked — and how much help he quietly accepted — to make that happen. When we finally learned the truth about Santa, our appreciation only deepened. That was the magic I longed to pass on as a parent.
That first year, we had four kids living with us. Becky’s oldest was married, pregnant, and already out on her own, and her fourth child had just died. Each of the kids received a few small gifts and one big one. They were grateful, but the day felt heavy and quiet. The next year, things became even harder when Becky’s third child chose to cut ties. It felt as though just when we started to breathe again, the holidays returned — reopening every memory.
The season is layered with painful dates. The accident happened on Thanksgiving night. Her daughter passed on December 7. Her birthday is January 11. Each milestone sits right in the middle of the time that’s supposed to be joyful. In 2019, Becky’s youngest, only 13 at the time, took it especially hard. With him being the last child at home, we decided to go all out. We surprised him with a computer, his own desk, and a chair. Seeing his face light up — that pure, stunned happiness — was the feeling I had waited my entire life to give.
In 2020, things improved. Becky’s second child moved back in and began forming a real bond with me, which warmed my heart more than any gift could. We included them fully in the celebrations and poured our love into that Christmas. Then came 2021. Earlier that year, Becky’s second child came out as transgender, and I adopted her, helping her legally change her name to Olivia. My ex-husband had also come out as trans and is now “Auntie Emma” to the kids. We even had a family photo taken — all of us together, a patchwork family with more love and history than we ever expected. The tree held more presents than ever, not because we needed excess, but because our family had finally grown into something steady.
Now, Christmas has become a gentle pause — a brief break in the grief. Each year, we spend weeks remembering everything we went through, and then for a short time, there is laughter, wrapping paper, and renewed hope. Watching the kids open their gifts gives them — and us — a spark that carries us forward, even if only for a little while.
I hesitated to share this story because it mixes tragedy with the holiday season, but I realized it’s important. Many families struggle through losses that surface most painfully at this time of year. We want others to know it’s okay to talk about it. It’s okay to feel sadness when the world expects cheer. Most of all, it’s okay to need support. If you’re hurting during the holidays, you are not alone — and there can still be small moments of light, even in the hardest seasons.
