Reflections from a Mom with a Loved One Incarcerated
The holiday season is here again—a time filled with twinkling lights, festive decorations, and cherished traditions. I usually throw myself into the joy of it all, embracing the cheesy decor and magical moments with my kids. But no matter how bright our tree shines or how much laughter fills our home, there’s always an empty space in our hearts—because my husband, their dad, isn’t here to share it with us.
We’re fortunate in many ways. We get to see him 2-3 times a week, which is more than many families in similar situations. I remind my kids constantly how lucky we are to have that, how loved they are by both of us, and how, even through this trial, we are blessed to have each other. But even with all those reminders, some days are just harder than others. Some days, I just miss him.
The hardest part isn’t the big milestones or holiday traditions—it’s the small, everyday things. It’s being able to run to the store without packing up the kids, sharing the work of diaper changes, or having someone to help hang ornaments on the higher branches of the tree. It’s ending the night together in our semi-clean home, knowing that tomorrow we’ll wake up to the same mess but facing it as a team. Those tiny moments of partnership are the ones I ache for the most.
The holidays, while beautiful through my children’s eyes, also bring a bittersweet reminder of everything we’re missing as a family. Recently, my oldest child asked me, “What do you want for Christmas, Mom?” Without thinking, I blurted out, “It doesn’t matter—I won’t get what I want.” Before I could cover my tracks with a cheerful response, he replied, “I wish Daddy could come home too.”
That moment hit me like a ton of bricks. I realized that maybe I’m not hiding my pain as well as I thought I was. I started to panic, questioning everything. How do I stop my emotions from spilling onto my children? Am I burdening them with feelings they’re too young to process? Am I messing this up?
But then, within that same second, another thought broke through. Maybe my role as a mom isn’t to shield my children from every hardship. Maybe we’re meant to walk through this together, as a family. I saw that, in my effort to protect them, I had been shutting them out. I thought by not showing my sadness, I was sparing them from it—but in reality, I was creating distance.
This realization changed how I see my role in their lives. As parents, we don’t have to have all the answers, nor do we have to hide our emotions to appear strong. Maybe the real strength comes in showing them that it’s okay to feel, that it’s okay to miss someone, and that together, we can carry the weight of this reality.
The holidays may never be perfect for us, but they don’t have to be. Perfection isn’t what makes a family whole—love does. And while love looks different for us, it’s still here, stronger than ever. We’ll decorate, we’ll laugh, and yes, we’ll cry. And through it all, we’ll keep holding onto each other, knowing that while we may not have everything we want, we have what truly matters: us.