Every December, my mother had a way of turning our home into something magical. It wasn’t about expensive decorations or fancy ornaments from department stores. It wasn’t about following trends or making things picture-perfect. It was about heart, tradition, and finding joy in the little things.

This picture of her standing proudly beside her Christmas tree says so much about who she was.

To some, it might look like just another holiday photo from the past—tinsel hanging heavily on the branches, lights glowing beneath the silver shimmer, wrapped presents tucked underneath. But for me, it is so much more. It is a memory of my mother’s happiness, her simple pleasures, and the way she found peace during the holiday season.

Mom loved tinsel. She adored the way it caught the light, how it turned the tree into something alive and glowing. Some people may say it was “too much,” but she never thought so.

She would decorate carefully, strand by strand, until the tree sparkled like it had been dusted with stars. When it was finished, she would sit quietly in her chair, turn off every light in the room except the tree, and just watch.

I can still see her there—her face softened by the glow, her eyes reflecting the colors, her whole being wrapped in that quiet joy. It was her moment of peace. For her, Christmas wasn’t about the gifts under the tree but the light it gave off—the way it could transform even an ordinary night into something sacred.

She often told me that those moments reminded her of being a child herself, when Christmas was simple, when the lights of the tree were the greatest wonder in the world. Maybe that’s why she loved it so much—because it kept that sense of childlike awe alive in her, year after year.

And though she didn’t know it at the time, she was passing that feeling on to me. She was teaching me, without ever saying it out loud, that joy doesn’t come from what’s trendy or flawless.

Joy comes from what makes your heart feel full. For her, it was a tree covered in silver tinsel, glowing in the dark.

That’s why this picture means so much to me. Because when I look at it, I don’t just see a Christmas tree—I see her. I see her laughter. I hear her voice telling me to come sit with her and look at how pretty the lights are. I remember how safe and warm it felt in that room, with her by my side.

Now, as the years have gone by and she is no longer here, those memories shine brighter than ever. I miss her terribly—more than words can say. But when I think of her, I often think of those nights by the tree. Because in those quiet moments, she was at her happiest.

Before anyone shares anything negative about how that tree looked, I want them to know this: my mother loved it. She loved the glow through the tinsel. She loved the magic it gave her. And because she loved it, I will always love it too.

We didn’t just have Christmas trees in my house—we had Christmas memories. Memories that still fill the empty spaces she left behind. And every December, when I see the lights on a tree, I feel her with me again, smiling in that glow.

I miss you, Mom. Always.