Christmas in May

It was the middle of May, and my daughter was dressed for Christmas.

Not Christmas-themed. Not a shirt with a subtle snowflake.

Full Christmas.

The outfit had been carefully selected as part of her strategy for surviving state testing week. She had planned her outfits in advance, painted her nails, and decided she would wear Christmas clothes every day for good luck.

And she couldn't have cared less what anyone thought about it.

That was Abby.

For as long as I can remember, Abby has marched to the beat of her own drum. Actually, that's not quite right — She didn't just march to her own drum. She decorated the drum, gave it a Christmas theme, and invited everyone else to join her.

Her love of Christmas started long before fourth grade. She wore Christmas clothes year-round, had Christmas-themed birthday parties in August, and played Christmas music whenever she felt like it.

To Abby, joy wasn't something you saved for a season. It was something you carried with you wherever you went.

As her mother, I loved that about her—her creativity, her confidence, and her willingness to be completely herself.

But I didn't fully understand what a gift that confidence was until she started fifth grade.

That year, she moved to a new intermediate school, surrounded by students from all over the district. Most of them didn't know her.

But that didn't stop Abby from being Abby. She still wore her favorite Christmas skirt on important days, and got her lockermate to agree to Christmas lights inside the locker. She wasn't toning herself down just because she was somewhere new.

One afternoon, she came home from school and casually repeated something another student had said to her that day: “It looks like Christmas threw up all over you.” She said it like it was nothing. I heard it like a punch.

I immediately braced myself. My knee-jerk reaction—at least in my head—was something along the lines of, Who hurt you, and where can I find them? Every protective instinct in me wanted to go full mama bear.

Thankfully, I kept that part in my head.

On the outside, I stayed calm, trying to remember everything I knew about listening first and letting my child tell me how she felt instead of deciding how I thought she should feel. Many years in public education will do that to you.

I studied her face, trying to figure out how badly the comment had hurt.

“How did that make you feel?” I asked as my throat tensed up.

Without missing a beat, she said, “I told her I like it. And if she doesn’t like it, she doesn’t have to wear it or look at it.”

I just stared at her.

My ten-year-old daughter had responded to criticism with more confidence than many adults ever develop. She wasn’t defensive or angry. She wasn’t trying to convince anyone. She simply knew who she was, and she was okay with it.

At the time, I couldn’t fully explain why that moment affected me so deeply. Looking back, I understand. What I was witnessing wasn’t just confidence.

It was freedom.

Freedom from needing everyone’s approval. Freedom from shrinking to make other people comfortable. Freedom from constantly editing yourself to fit what others expect.

Those were things I had struggled with for most of my life—people-pleasing, keeping the peace, avoiding conflict, trying not to rock the boat.

Meanwhile, my daughter was out there wearing Christmas outfits in May and refusing to apologize for it.

Without realizing it, she was teaching me something.

As Abby grew older, that same confidence showed up in different ways. She wasn't afraid to speak up when she thought something was unfair. She advocated for feminine products to be available in school bathrooms so girls wouldn't have to ask and pay for them. She challenged dress code policies she believed treated boys and girls differently. She marched alongside people who needed support and publicly stood behind causes she believed in.

Sometimes people agreed with her. Sometimes they didn't.

That never seemed to matter much to Abby. She knew what she believed, and she wasn't interested in making herself smaller to make other people more comfortable. I've always admired that about her. I still do.

If you asked me about Abby, I could tell you a hundred stories. I could tell you about the cardboard dollhouses and handmade games, the birthday party entirely themed around bacon, or the slime experiment that permanently claimed a section of her bedroom carpet.

I could tell you about her intelligence, her work ethic, and how she’s completely rocking her classes as she works toward her degree. And I am incredibly proud of those things.

But when I think about what inspires me most about Abby, it isn't something you can measure with grades, awards, or achievements.

It's her courage to be fully herself.

To know what she believes. To stand behind it. To take up space without apologizing for who she is. That's the part of Abby that I hope I never stop learning from.

She has always had the courage to be exactly who she is—not who someone else wants her to be, not who the crowd expects her to be, and not who would make life easier.

For years, I thought my job as a parent was to teach my children how to move through the world. And of course, part of it was. But as time moved on, Abby started teaching me too.

She taught me that not everyone has to like you. That standing up for something is often uncomfortable. That being authentic matters more than being approved of. And that kindness and courage can absolutely exist in the same person.

Most of all, she taught me that taking up space is not something you need permission to do.

I spent much of my life trying not to rock the boat.

My daughter showed me what it looked like to climb into the boat, paint it Christmas colors, and sail it exactly where she wanted to go.

Today, that little girl in the Christmas outfit turns 22. And after all these years, one thing hasn't changed.

She is still completely, unapologetically Abby.

And I couldn't be prouder.

Before You Go...

Every story has a lesson hidden inside it.

Here's mine:

Sometimes the people we’re supposed to be teaching end up teaching us, too.

Watching Abby grow into someone who trusts her own voice, stands behind what she believes, and refuses to make herself smaller has reminded me that being fully yourself takes courage.

And maybe one of the greatest gifts we can give the people we love is the freedom to become exactly who they were meant to be.

My question for you:

Who in your life has taught you something simply by having the courage to be fully themselves? 

Abby on the first day of 5th grade.