“Even the broken can produce joy.” – Elizabeth Montgomery, allegedly.
I may or may not be broken, but I definitely identify with that statement. The world certainly feels broken, this country feels like a disaster, and yet… people still yearn for joy. They search for it, crave it, and make room for it despite the complicated mess around us. When I look back, hasn’t the Christmas season always carried its own complications? Its stresses? Isn’t joy often something we hold alongside hard times?
Even in childhood pictures, I’m reminded that I didn’t always look joyful. I remember the economic pressures my family faced. Our Christmas Eve tradition of enchiladas and tamales wasn’t born out of nostalgia—it was because my mom couldn’t afford a turkey and all the fixings on top of presents and plane tickets for my sister and me to visit our dad.
By middle school, the world felt even heavier. The idea of finding joy in Christmas felt immature—uncool, even. How can you be cool and joyful? As if.
As an adult, it’s always the world versus the joy of the season. My desire to spend time with my children and family—doing holiday things we love—constantly competes with work, finances, illness, grief, and the everyday struggles of life. I often think it’s worse now than ever, but a glance back just 100 years shows the foundation was already there.
In the December 1925 issue of Better Homes and Gardens, contributors were wrestling with the ghosts of WWI. Their prayers that such a war never return sat alongside consumer-driven ads for children’s gifts. Articles about investing in your home ran next to money-saving recipes and guides for a “homemade Christmas.” Honestly, that isn’t so different from today.
Growing up, I was taught you cannot live in a fantasy world. And yet it’s easy to see why I might want to. Here we are in December 2025, and I struggle with realities every day—economic, political, global, local, church, and family challenges. These weigh on nearly everyone I know. But I refuse to believe that carving out moments of joy—setting aside the overwhelming heaviness of life, even briefly—is somehow irresponsible or immature.
Life is too hard to live in seriousness alone. If I pour all my energy into the harsh realities—working hard, earning money, donating, voting, reading the news, discussing the state of the world—yes, maybe I’ll make a difference. But if I do all that and still refuse to seek out joy because “the world is too serious,” then what have I gained? What lesson have I taught my sons? What legacy would that leave?
So yes—I reject that idea. I choose to seek joy. I go looking for silliness and fun, not to be foolish, but because that is often where joy hides.
One of my favorite memories from recent years is when Kat, the boys, and I stopped by the giant Christmas balls at Devon Energy to take a few pictures after a late-night movie. That moment has nothing to do with the movie or the photos. It’s a favorite because, in the middle of that picture-taking silliness, we found joy. In a world full of uncertainty—global, local, and personal—we shared something bright and light and meaningful.
And for what it’s worth? That is not nothing.
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