Hello ladies and gents of Hive,
This is my entry for contest 267! Lookimg forward to reading yours too.
These last two weeks have sat heavy on my chest.
The end of the year comes, the lights go up, the carols start,
and everywhere the world whispers the same word: family.
For many, that word is soft.
For me, it still stings.
Let me tell you a little bit about me.
I come from an immigrant family.
My mother left when I was one month old,
and an old woman with tired hands gathered me up
and called me granddaughter and child and future
all in the same breath.
My grandmother raised me from almost nothing.
I learned the language of lack before I learned to speak.
I knew the sound of coins counted twice,
the stretch of soup to feed one more mouth,
the quiet pride of a woman who will not let poverty
steal her dignity.
Later, I learned another language:
what it means to have a little more.
To buy bread without checking the price first.
To feel a small, surprising comfort creep into life.
So I carry both histories in one body:
the girl who had not,
and the woman who now has enough to give.
This year I turned forty-four.
That strange middle place.
Too old to be called “the youth”,
old enough that the young adults are watching,
measuring their possibilities against my footsteps.
They look at me like I hold answers.
But here is the truth:
Is my life in perfect order? No.
Do I have the wealth I dreamed of? Not yet.
Do I only do work that thrills my soul? I don’t.
Am I the woman my eighteen-year-old self imagined?
In some ways, she wouldn’t recognise me.
But I have something she prayed for in the dark:
the power to give, and not be emptied by the giving.
If I could offer one gift this holiday season,
I would place it gently in the hands of a young woman
who looks like my history.
Maybe she is raising a child alone.
Maybe she is catching early taxis, late trains,
shoulders stiff with worry about rent,
school shoes, electricity,
and the bill that always comes too soon.
My gift to her would not be glitter or wrapping paper.
I would give her a season of enough.
Enough food so the pot is not a place of shame.
Enough money so she is not forced to choose
between getting to work and keeping the lights on.
Enough small kindnesses - a lift, a rest,
a night of childcare, a little data -
so she remembers she is human, not just machine.
I know it would not fix everything.
But it would buy her something priceless:
breathing room.
A moment to think beyond survival.
A chance to look at her child and see more than fear of tomorrow.
That is the gift I dream of giving,
because it is the gift my grandmother tried to give me
with far less than I have now.
And what do I love most about this season?
Not the sales, not the perfect tables on social media.
I love the holy, ordinary moments:
People drifting through my kitchen.
Laughter spilling over the sound of pots.
Cousins heavy with food,
leaning into couches like they finally trust the world to hold them.
Someone exhaling, shoulders dropping,
because just for today, they are safe.
I love having a home where there is always one more plate.
Where the kettle knows it will be called on again.
Where a young adult can knock, drop their bags,
and say, “I am tired,”
and not be asked to perform strength.
No, my life is not a straight, polished story.
It is a patchwork of loss and grace,
of almost-giving-up and getting-up again.
But I have reached a place
where I can turn my old aching into new comfort for others.
Where that abandoned one-month-old baby
can now open her door and say,
“Come in. Sit. You don’t have to fight alone today.”
So my answer to both questions is one simple truth:
The gift I long to give
is a season of enough to someone still standing in the storm.
And the thing I cherish most
is watching the people I love sit at my table,
eat well, rest deeply,
and know - even for one quiet day -
that they are seen, held, and provided for.
That, for me, is what the holidays are.
Wishing you all a season of enough! ❤️
