This is a story about light — the kind that shows up softly, even when you’re not sure it will.
When I was sixteen, I moved away from home for the first time. I lived in college dorms, which—contrary to every brochure ever printed—felt less like a cozy place to live and learn and more like a very cold, slightly depressing prison with homework.
When December rolled around that first year, I went shopping with a friend and bought myself a small fiber-optic Christmas tree. He had one in his dorm room, and seeing those tiny twinkling lights—sparkling away like they had somewhere important to be—made something in me ache. I needed that light. I needed that joy.
Back in my room, I carefully unpacked it, gently unfolded the branches, and placed it into its little pot. That pot housed the magic: the light source that sent color dancing through every fiber-optic strand. When I turned it on, the room changed. The twinkle gave me exactly what I had hoped for. Warmth. Comfort. A feeling that maybe I belonged there after all.
For three Decembers at college, I followed the same ritual. Unfold the branches. Place it in its pot. Watch it twinkle.
Every Christmas holiday, it came home with me and lit up the living room. When I left college, it traveled with me all over the country. No matter where I was at Christmas, that little tree was there too—quietly doing its job, asking nothing in return.
When I moved to the Netherlands thirteen years ago, it came with me again. It twinkled from my desk or a nearby table, faithfully. We even found tiny ornaments to hang on it, and suddenly it felt like a new tree while still holding all those old memories inside its glowing branches.
For me, Christmas has always been about finding joy among sadness. My biological mother hated the season, and something always seemed to happen—sickness, accidents, loss. There were parties with drunk adults and kids who didn’t want to play with the blind girl. But there was always light. Sometimes I found it while hiding under a big Christmas tree at a party, letting the glow wrap around me. Other times, it was the steady twinkle of my little tree, reminding me that light existed even when things were hard.
I love the light during the dark days. I love the music. The food. And my little twinkle tree has always been a sacred part of that.
Or… it was.
Twenty-six years. Yes, you read that right. Twenty-six years of joy, routine, and tiny glowing miracles. They say old things last the longest, and clearly, my tree took that personally. But on December 21st, 2025—thirteen years after moving to the Netherlands—I turned it on and watched it flicker… and then go dark.
Gone.
I never knew I could feel that emotional about a Christmas tree. Yet there I was, an absolute mess. It felt like the end of something special—something I could never replace.
After realizing there was no chance of finding another one just four days before Christmas, I cried into my cornflakes. I got emotional on my live stream. By the time darkness fell, I had absolutely no idea what to do.
After a trip to the bathroom, I returned to the living room and found that Jessy had placed a string of battery-powered LED lights into the tree. It wasn’t the same as the twinkling fiber optics, but it was light—and light means hope. I thought maybe after Christmas I could remove the power cable and next year put normal tree lights in it.
What I didn’t realize was that Jessy had done this very deliberately. She had my brain thinking exactly what she wanted it to think. A perfect diversion. A master plan. One designed to stop me from attempting to order a new tree.
December 23rd.
While video calling with Dad, Jessy casually mentioned that a package would be delivered later that evening. When I asked what she’d ordered for herself, she went off on an impressive tangent about her computer. I never did get an answer about the mysterious package.
After dinner, the doorbell rang.
Jessy placed a small, thin, rectangular box on my lap.
Inside it was… a new twinkly tree.
I was stunned. Why? What had I done to deserve this? And once again, the tears came—but this time they were happy ones.
It smelled fresh and new as I pulled it out and carefully unfolded the branches. The pot was different—smaller and lighter—housing LEDs instead of an old-fashioned screw bulb and rotating colored disc.
Turning it on for the first time felt magical. The LEDs gave it a different look, but far from disappointing. The colors were sharper, brighter, and danced proudly at the tips of its branches.
Jessy helped me move the ornaments from the old tree to the new one, and I placed it exactly where the old tree had always stood. I can’t stop smiling every time I look at it. It feels like a small Christmas miracle. Light in the darkness—restored.
It has big shoes to fill, but I’m confident it will do an amazing job.
I placed the old tree gently into a box. I patted it and thanked it for twenty-six years of joy. It has been the one constant, stable thing in my life for twenty-six Christmases, and I’m deeply grateful it stayed with me for so long.
Thank you, little tree.
I won’t forget you. ✨🎄
———
If you’re reading this on Christmas Day and feeling alone, know that somewhere, a little light is twinkling just for you. It may not look like it used to — but it’s still warm, still real, and still yours.
Sending light, warmth and love your way. 🫶
CRS Life 