What We Already Carry.

December tends to stride in like a herald — bells, lights, expectancy, the whole parade. It’s the month that wraps everything in a soft shimmer and insists that joy and hope take centre stage again.

And honestly? I love it.

There’s something delightful about the way the world seems collectively willing to look for brightness. We become treasure-hunters of cheer: spotting it in gatherings, in small acts of kindness, in candles flickering through windows, in the hush of late-night streets. Even the air feels a little more expectant, as if something good is leaning close.

But here’s the thing I’ve been thinking about lately: December doesn’t deliver joy and hope. It simply reminds me that they’ve been with me all year.

Somehow, they get louder this month — not because they weren’t speaking before, but because the noise around them finally softens. We make room. We look up. We remember what we already knew.

And here’s the gift: once we see them, once we make room, we carry them with us. We take that light beyond the decorated windows and the carols, into ordinary mornings, into the words we speak, the choices we make, the way we touch other lives. 

So maybe this season isn’t about finding something new, but about remembering. Remembering that joy and hope are ours to carry. Ours to keep. Ours to remember, even on days when they feel more like faint echoes than bright banners.

And what a perfect time to be reminded of that.