Love, Courage, and the Quiet Freedom of Christmas Eve

It is the most incredible day.

Christmas Eve morning, soft and luminous, the kind that arrives without urgency and asks nothing of you but presence.

We’d already been out for breakfast, then wandered to The Rock to book Boxing Day lunch—little anchors in the week that give the days a gentle rhythm. Later we’ll head up to Finca Lérida, the coffee plantation that quietly seeded my romance novel Love in Panama. Every time I go there, I understand again why this story chose this place. It isn’t just beautiful—it’s steady. Rooted. Assured of itself.

Everywhere is stunning right now. I’m finally settling into the art of relaxing—really relaxing—where enjoyment isn’t something to earn, but something to allow. The sun is out today; yesterday the rain arrived right on time, blessing the land and turning everything that deep, velvety green that feels like a promise. Panama does that—it restores colour to things you didn’t realise had dulled.

My card today read: Stay connected to nature.
So I walked along the riverbank, took a short video, watched the water slide over stones smoothed by time and patience. I felt myself soften. Being away from New Zealand has given me space—space to breathe, to feel, to reflect without being pulled back into old gravity.

Sometimes, in that quiet, my thoughts drift to family. To the distance that exists now. I’d been reading a passage from Danielle Steel’s The Colour of Hope—a scene about siblings raised without rivalry, treated equally, encouraged toward kindness and closeness. Laurie smiled and said, “It’s such a fairy tale.” And it is. Or at least, it can be.

Because for some of us, family was not a place of equal footing or safety. For some of us, shining came at a cost. I thought about how my own attempts to succeed were met not with encouragement but with sabotage, with names, with doors quietly closed. About how inheritance—something meant to provide continuity—was fractured and weaponised, and how the echoes of that still sting.

There are moments you don’t forget.
Moments that teach you, finally, where compassion must end and self-respect must begin.

I’ve learned something important in these years: empathy without boundaries is a trap. Love does not require self-erasure. Peace is not passive—it is chosen, protected, defended with clarity. And here, in this place, I am choosing my gentle peace. My quiet joy. My hard-worked-for freedoms.

We took George out in the car and laughed ourselves silly remembering the video from last night—driving the wrong way, distracted by Christmas lights, delighted by our own foolishness. That’s one of the things I love here: people are kind. Not rushed or aggressive. Helpful. Warm. There’s an ease in the air that feels like permission to be human.

It’s 10:20 now. Laurie’s gone off to follow his passion for the day, and later we’ll have Christmas Eve dinner at one of our favourite places, Nomad—a place that feels like coming home even though it’s far from where I began.

This afternoon I’ll do another hummingbird drawing, easing myself into coloured pencils, learning the feel of them again. Perhaps the paper isn’t quite right—but that’s all part of it. Learning. Adjusting. Allowing imperfection to be part of the joy.

And how do I feel, really?

Grateful.
Rested.
Peaceful.
Joyful.
Loved—and loving.
Unhurried.
Unburdened.
Euphoric.

Love gives us courage—not the loud kind, but the steady kind. The courage to choose joy. To walk away from what harms us. To stand in our own lives and say, This is enough. I am enough.

Today, that feels like the greatest gift of all.

Because the real gift of Christmas isn’t what you give others.

It’s the permission you give yourself
to slow down,
to soften,
and to begin the new year feeling whole rather than depleted.

Practical stress management tips. Stress Less. Love Life More.

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