As I write this, tomorrow is Halloween, and for years Nov. 1 meant it was time to decorate for Christmas. Yes, I’m one of THOSE people.

But this year, in a new place with new people and no family nearby, the holidays feel different — though not for the reasons you might think.

People ask why I moved alone from Southeast Missouri to Southeast Alaska. My go-to answer is that I’ve always hated Southeast Missouri — which is true. But over the past couple of years, I’ve learned there’s a different kind of loneliness that comes from being physically close to those who should be closest to you and still feeling apart.

Distance isn’t just measured in miles; sometimes it’s the space between expectations and reality, between what a home once held and what it holds now.

My mom was diagnosed with leukemia in December 2022. She fought hard, took experimental drugs so expensive it’s hard to describe, and by early summer there was real hope.

Then, in August 2023, she got an infection and went septic. Leukemia patients rarely survive sepsis. Within 24 hours, she was gone.

Dad had died eight years earlier, and suddenly my three siblings and I were orphans. (It really IS a hard-knock life. Couldn’t help myself).

When mom died, our family traditions died with her. The rituals we took for granted — the way every holiday had a rhythm and a feeling — vanished.

Three months later, Thanksgiving arrived; my siblings wanted to do nothing. I planned to cook most of the meal, to conjure what used to be, but everyone chose their own path.

The next year was the same. Christmas followed suit. When mom was alive, the house glowed with music and decorations, the calendar dotted with gatherings and small rituals that stitched us together. After she died, home didn’t feel like home.

At the risk of speaking ill of the dead, I think that’s partly dad’s fault. My nonprofessional take is that he had narcissistic personality traits. Nothing I did was ever quite good enough.

Even when I completed Army training and graduated airborne school — a milestone no one thought I’d reach — he barely noticed. I don’t doubt he loved us the best he knew how, but I think much of his behavior was a defense mechanism: self-protection masquerading as indifference, control standing in for care.

The result was a childhood that trained us to be hyper-vigilant, to keep emotions contained, to confuse stoicism with strength.

We learned good things, too: a strong moral compass, a clear sense of right and wrong, the discipline to finish what we start. But dad could have been better. And that’s the point — we all can be better. Traditions don’t just happen; they’re written — quietly, repeatedly — by the choices we make when it would be easier to do nothing.

So as the season rolls in, I’m trying to notice the instructions I’m writing for the future — mine and anyone who might one day call my house home. I’m slowly getting new decorations. I’m cooking the meal even if it’s just for a small table of one. I’m putting music on because silence can become a habit.

Love as best as you can; and whenever possible, do better. If loss rewrote the script, then maybe love can write a new one — one that keeps what was good, forgives what wasn’t, and leaves a light on for whoever needs to find their way.