Red Ribbons, White Lies
It all begins with an idea.
There’s something about the end of the year that feels like a trap disguised as a tradition. Red ribbons tied around candles, wine swirling like secrets in antique glasses, cakes puffed up with cream like they have something to prove. The illusion of cheer, so thick you could frost it.
But here's the thing about wrapping things in red:
It always looks like a gift.
Even when it’s a warning.
This year, I threw myself into it anyway. I set the table like I was expecting someone important. Lit the candle like I wasn’t the only one watching it burn. Poured a drink like I had something to celebrate. And for dessert? A cake so sugary it could silence a scream.
Maybe that’s what we do. Maybe that’s all we ever do.
Dress the dread in whipped cream and call it love.
Put on a red bow and pretend it’s not bleeding underneath.
I looked at that glass in my hand and realized—I wasn’t toasting the season. I was giving a eulogy. For another year that devoured me and asked for seconds. For the silence I swallowed instead of the words I wanted to scream. For the version of me that thought all this effort would somehow bloom into something more.
But nothing bloomed.
It just... looped.
Create. Finish. Upload. Repeat.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Echo.
Nothing.
Try again.
I don’t write because it’s easy. I write because it claws at me if I don’t. I make because if I stop, I have to admit it: I don’t know what happens next. And maybe that’s the real horror.
So here we are—me, you, the tree dressed in a thousand red strings, the ghost of the year we didn’t ask for, and the question no one dares answer:
What if this is it?
What if the good life doesn’t come wrapped in success, or clarity, or even peace…
What if it’s just this:
Showing up anyway.
Pouring the drink anyway.
Tying the bow anyway.
Making something beautiful even when no one’s watching.
Even when the knife doesn’t cut the cake, but your own expectations.
Happy holidays from your friendly neighborhood author with a frosting problem and a body count in her books.
We made it.
Kind of.