Not in a dramatic, burn-it-down way. But in a quiet, anxious,this holiday felt like a performance I didn’t rehearse forway. The lights were too bright. The expectations too loud. The pressure to be cheerful felt like homework I forgot about until the night before.
Actually, that’s kind of how life felt most days. But not anymore.
Do I still have social anxiety? Yes.
Do I still hate crowds and loud noises? Also yes.
Do I beat myself up for being awkward and allow negative thoughts to ruin my life? Fuck no.
It wasn’t easy to get to this moment. It took a lot of therapy, but I had an excellent support network of friends. And Ethan.
Always Ethan.
There with warm hugs and calm support when I need it.
And always willing to give me hot, sweaty stress relief in the bedroom when that’s what I need. Which is often.
But at this moment, I’m standing barefoot in our new living room. Pine needles poke the soles of my bare feet, and I’mtangled in a strand of tree lights, while smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
Our house smells like cinnamon and fresh wood and the faint metallic tang of tinsel. The heater hums softly. Outside, snow dusts the garden, making everything look clean and festive.
Inside, boxes are stacked everywhere. They’re filled with ornaments, garlands, and stockings we bought on sale in February because Ethan said, “Future us will thank us.”
He was right. Again.
“Liz,” Ethan says from across the room, amusement thick in his voice. “You’re supposed to decorate the tree, not wrestle it.”
“I am decorating,” I argue, even as the lights tighten around my wrist like they’re making a point. “This is just… my immersive method. It’s very popular with hip interior designers.”
He laughs. The sound is warm and familiar in a way that still makes something bloom in my chest.
Ethan crosses the room in socked feet and gently untangles me, fingers careful and practiced. He kisses my temple when he’s done, like a punctuation.
A year ago, that kind of casual affection would have sent me spiraling.
Now it feels like home.
And I am in our home. It’s our first house. Not huge, not fancy.
It’s a little crooked in places and has hardwood floors that creak. But also a kitchen window that lets in the morning light just right. We argued for a week about paint colors and ended up choosing the one Ethan suggested on day one.
He pretends not to be smug about it.
I hang an ornament, one of the few sentimental ones we own and didn’t get in a February sale. It’s a tiny coffee cup with a snowflake on it. Ethan bought it last year Christmas, a quiet nodto the coffee shop where everything changed. Where our hands danced together.
Sometimes they still do.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m reminiscing,” I reply. “Very on-brand for me.” I still overthink everything. But Ethan finds that endearing. Crazy fool that he is.
He grins. How I love that grin on his face
It’s the same face that once belonged to my intimidating, off-limits boss. Now it belongs to the man who tickles me until I cry with laughter and makes me tea exactly the way I like it when I’ve had a rough day at work.
Work.
That’s changed too.
