The holidays have always been special in my family. Mom loved them—her house was always decorated just so, the food was homemade and perfect, and every detail reflected her love for the season. But now, things are different. Mom lives in assisted living, and the holidays are no longer her domain. It’s a shift she hasn’t fully accepted, and to be honest, neither have I.

These days, her mindset is a mix of forgetfulness and resentment. She insists she doesn’t belong in assisted living, that she’s perfectly capable of being on her own, and that she’s just there because we “don’t want to deal with her.” Trust me, hearing that stings every time. And the holidays? They seem to magnify everything—her anger, her sadness, and my own frustration as I try to make the season special for both of us.

A Holiday in Layers

Last year, I made the mistake of over-planning. I wanted to recreate some of our old traditions—decorating cookies, shopping for gifts, and hosting a family meal at my house. I thought it would make her happy. But from the moment I picked her up, things were off.

“Why do I even have to go back there?” she asked in the car, meaning the assisted living facility. “I’m fine on my own.” I started to explain, again, that she needs help with daily things—medications, meals, getting around safely—but she wasn’t having it. The more I tried to soothe her, the angrier she got. By the time we got to my house, I was emotionally drained, and the day had barely started.

Shopping, But Not for Gifts

Gift shopping was another hurdle. We went to the mall, something she used to love, but it was clear the experience wasn’t the same for her. She couldn’t keep track of what we were looking for and kept insisting we buy things that didn’t make sense. At one point, she wanted to get a sweater for my brother—one three sizes too small. When I gently pointed it out, she snapped, “Well, you’re the expert on everything, aren’t you?”

Mom wasn’t just frustrated with the shopping; she was frustrated with me, with the situation, with the reality that things had changed. And honestly? I was frustrated too. I wanted so badly to make her happy, but nothing I did seemed to work.

Letting Go of Perfection

By the time the holidays were over last year, I was emotionally and physically spent. I’d tried so hard to recreate the magic of the past, but all it seemed to do was highlight everything that was different now.

This year, I’m approaching things differently. Instead of trying to force joy, I’m focusing on what’s manageable for both of us. I’ve accepted that Mom might not always be happy, and that’s okay. Her anger about being in assisted living isn’t something I can fix with outings or gifts, no matter how hard I try.

What We’re Doing Instead

This year, I’m keeping it simple.

• Decorating her space: We’ll put up a small tree in her room with a few ornaments from her collection. It’s less overwhelming than doing the whole house, and it brings a touch of her old traditions into her new space.
• A low-key meal: Instead of a big family dinner, we’ll have something simple—maybe takeout or a small lunch together. It’s less stressful for both of us and gives her a chance to enjoy without feeling out of place.
• Short outings: If she’s up for it, we’ll do one or two short trips, like driving around to look at lights or picking out a gift for one of the grandkids.

I’ve also let go of the idea that I need to “fix” her mood. If she’s angry, I try not to take it personally. If she forgets something, I remind her gently and move on. It’s not easy, and there are still moments when I want to scream into a pillow, but I’m learning that the holidays don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

Finding the Joy in the Messiness

Not every moment is beautiful. Some are downright hard. But then there are small, surprising flashes of connection—a shared laugh over an old family story, the way her face lights up when she sees a photo of her grandkids, or the simple peace of sitting together in the glow of a Christmas tree.

The holidays with Mom aren’t what they used to be, and they may never be again. But they’re still ours, messy and complicated and real. And for now, that’s enough.