The holidays have always been a powerful reminder to me that everything we experience in life is meant to teach us something. The good moments, the painful ones, and even the downright ugly experiences all stack together, shaping us into who we eventually become. Each season adds another layer of understanding, whether we realize it at the time or not.
In 2005, my entire world was turned upside down. Hurricane Katrina ripped through our lives, leaving devastation in its wake and forcing all of us to figure out how to start over with whatever pieces remained. After becoming a “refugee” in Memphis, I made the decision to head west. I had always dreamed of living in Los Angeles, and my heart was full of ambition. I packed up my little blue Mazda Protegé, stars in my eyes, convinced I was on my way to becoming a famous pop singer. I arrived just after Thanksgiving, grateful to have a couple of dear friends waiting for me. Christmas was quickly approaching, but I wasn’t ready for it. And that was surprising, because y’all—I love the holidays. I always have. The decorations, the cheerful energy, the traditions, and most of all, my family. It wasn’t until I moved away that I truly understood how deeply family was woven into my love for Christmas. That year, I had to learn how to enjoy the season all over again.
Every Christmas before that one, I would pack my bags and head back home to Mississippi. I’d spend a few days visiting family, making the rounds, and eventually gathering at my mamaw and papaw’s house. There was always arguing, which inevitably led to some kind of fight between my siblings and me. Honestly, it wouldn’t have felt like Christmas without a little drama. Late on Christmas Eve, I’d sit with my hometown best friend, reminiscing about Christmases past. We shared the same deep love for everything the season represented.
Then suddenly, there I was—alone in Los Angeles. As fate would have it, I connected with a friend who managed the B-52’s and lived in a stunning home off Sunset Boulevard. I’d sit on his doorstep, staring across at the Laugh Factory, soaking in the surrealness of it all. His walls were lined with platinum records from the B-52’s, and while it was incredible, it didn’t feel like Christmas. Eventually, he left to visit his family for the holidays, and I stayed behind for a few more days. Some people might have loved having the house to themselves, but I remember feeling incredibly lonely. I cried a lot. On Christmas Day in 2005, I sat on those front steps, staring at Sunset Boulevard, quietly wishing I were back in New Orleans.
Some people might not understand this unless they’ve lived there or spent significant time there, but New Orleans is truly one of a kind. Life moves slower, on its own rhythm. That pace can frustrate outsiders, but to me, it felt like home—like a comfort blanket. New Orleans is a diamond in the rough that doesn’t need polishing. She shines exactly as she is. And that Christmas Day, I missed her terribly, along with my annual trip home to Mississippi.
That year, I talked on the phone with my best friend back home, something we did every Christmas. We’d usually swap stories and talk about what we loved most about the holiday. But this time felt different. “It feels like you’re 1,670 miles away,” I said. Christmas 2005 was painful, but it also gave me clarity. As much as I thought I belonged on the West Coast, my heart knew otherwise. Home was New Orleans.
It still amazes me that just ten years after that moment of despair, my husband and I would be welcoming our newborn daughter home. With clammy palms, racing hearts, and knots in our stomachs, we met our tiny miracle. She weighed just four pounds—smaller than a baby doll—and was more fragile and beautiful than anything we had ever held. That was the moment our lives changed forever. The fog lifted, everything sharpened, and suddenly every decision we made revolved around her. Every holiday was about her. That day, the day we became Daddy and Papa, was one of the most significant moments of our lives.
Driving home with her in the backseat for the first time felt surreal, like a dream we were afraid to wake up from. Being Christmas time only made it more magical. Life suddenly felt bigger, more meaningful. The stress of the adoption process had stretched us thin, like a rubber band pulled tight—and bringing her home felt like that rubber band finally snapping, launching us forward like a shooting star. Everything moved at warp speed, and the only emotions I remember are love, excitement, and overwhelming eagerness.
I remember lying on the couch with her resting on my chest, listening to her breathe and watching her tiny hands move. This was surreal in a whole new way. Life has a way of forcing you to grow up quickly. She came into the world ten weeks early, weighing only 3.5 pounds, and had to spend several weeks in the NICU gaining strength and putting on weight.
We used to call her our “little werewolf baby” because when she got hungry, she would literally try to eat us. She’d be peacefully swaddled, but about twenty minutes before feeding time, she’d start squirming and transform into a loud, angry little baby worm. My husband even bought a werewolf Christmas ornament to commemorate that phase. Every year when we hang it on the tree, we’re instantly taken back to those precious, chaotic moments.
Feeding schedules weren’t the only thing we had to learn—we also had to learn how not to overfeed her. Because she was premature, digesting formula was incredibly difficult for her. Even the most sensitive formula upset her tiny system. She was constantly hungry, but if she drank too much, we paid for it. She threw up all the time, every single day. Wearing nice clothes was out of the question—we knew they’d be covered in baby puke before long.
These memories always seem to resurface during the holidays. Maybe it’s because of how much our big girl has grown and how far she’s come in just four years. Seeing how healthy and “normal” she is now makes it easy to reflect on those 3.5-pound werewolf baby days. Those memories and Christmastime are forever intertwined.
One of our favorite holiday stories to laugh about happened while visiting my mother-in-law in Jackson. Our daughter was still struggling with digestion, and we were sitting in the living room, talking about our new parenting reality. Someone said something so funny that we all burst out laughing. Douglas was holding Alli Mae facing him, and at the exact moment he opened his mouth to laugh, she unleashed an entire bottle’s worth of baby puke straight into his mouth. It was hilariously disgusting. His mom and I still laugh about it, and I’m pretty sure we always will.
Life has an incredible way of changing direction. Christmas 2005 felt dark and hopeless. I felt stuck, like every decision I made back then was wrong. But looking back, I see how mistaken I was. That Christmas wish I made on those steps overlooking Sunset Boulevard nearly fifteen years ago came true. I didn’t realize how deeply I loved New Orleans until I left. And once I moved back home, I met my husband—the Daddy of my babies. The universe works in mysterious, awe-inspiring ways. Just when you think you’ve figured it all out, it winks and says, “Not so fast.”
Past Christmases will always hold a special place in my heart—the excitement of Santa, the sleepless Christmas Eve nights. But having our own girls and creating magic for them has taken Christmas to an entirely new level.
I truly feel it’s my responsibility to mesmerize them with everything Christmas can be. Traditions are the heartbeat of this season for our family—from the decorations and baking to the music and stories we share around the tree. All of it matters. The experiences I had growing up gave me the tools to create that same magic, year after year, for our children.
