Presence: The Gift That Was Never Wrapped

This season, when we're meant to gather in joy and light, stories of violence and death make many of us want to turn away, to protect ourselves from the darkness. 

Recently, a young man in my community—someone I was acquainted with—committed a violent crime. Then came news of a beloved filmmaker and his wife, murdered by their own son. Both felt achingly close to home. In both cases, young men filled with rage committed senseless, unfathomable acts.

The night after the first incident, I couldn't sleep. My instinct was to armor up, to retreat into fear. But as I lay there breathing, my soul asked me to do something different: to be present.

Being present doesn't mean dwelling in horror. It means allowing what's happening to move through us—to be witnessed, felt, seen, and heard—so it can be alchemized into compassion.

That night, as I breathed into my discomfort, something shifted. I felt the shock and vulnerability of violence so close. But staying with the breath took me deeper. I felt the anguish of the families—parents and siblings who must now reckon with unfathomable loss and incomprehensible actions. Then I felt it for these young men, tortured souls who didn't know how to ask for help.

Somewhere in that breathing, in that presence, I found love. Not approval. But love—the kind that holds space for the brokenness in all of us.

The Shadow Rising

Mental health is a soul disease. It’s what happens when we suppress rather than process. When emotions have no outlet, they erupt, sometimes devastatingly. Our young men especially struggle with this. Raised without permission to be vulnerable or ask for help, they internalize their pain until it becomes unbearable. This pattern isn't just individual—it's collective. The violence we're witnessing reflects a culture that has long denied the feminine principle of feeling, processing, and healing in favor of the masculine drive to suppress and soldier on.

Being the Light

What does it mean to shine light in times like these? Not the kind that bypasses darkness, but the kind that meets it and chooses presence anyway.

When I stayed present that sleepless night, my fear transformed. My nervous system softened, and I could hold compassion rather than judgment, love rather than fear.

This is the work: not to fix the world's brokenness, but to meet our own. The more I return to my own harmony, my own breath, the more that vibration ripples outward.

The Greatest Present

The gift that was never wrapped is presence itself. It's always with us, always available—never "under wraps" but as close as our breath. It's the willingness to sit with what's uncomfortable, to breathe through what scares us, to meet our triggers with curiosity instead of armor.

This doesn't mean ignoring what's happening. It means we stop running from it, stop numbing ourselves or projecting our fear. We become present—to ourselves, to each other, to the moment as it is.

When we do this, something alchemical happens. The heaviness transforms. Beneath the fear is grief. Beneath the grief is love. And beneath it all is our shared humanity.

A Prayer for Presence

I'd like to close with a prayer I wrote for this season—a practice you can return to whenever the weight feels too heavy:

Divine Love,
In this holy time of December,
we turn our attention inward—
listening to our souls,
noticing where resistance lives,
and honoring it with love and light.

We release the pressure to perform,
to please,
to be perfect,
and allow ourselves to simply be present.

Inhale permission to slow down.
Exhale the weight of expectations
and any uncomfortable feelings.

We remember that the greatest gift
was never wrapped, never bought, never earned—
it is presence with what is.

⸻

For the joy that is here, we give thanks.
For the grief that walks beside us, we offer compassion.
For what is missing, we make room.
For the love that exists,
we feel into it
and allow ourselves to be Light.

Inhale gentleness for the heart.
Exhale any need to rush healing.

May our breath hold it all with tenderness.

⸻

In this holy pause,
we remember the truth December comes to teach us:
Love arrives quietly.
Peace is born in stillness.
Presence heals what perfection never could.

Inhale love into every cell.
Exhale love into the world.

⸻

May our presence be the gift we give—
to ourselves,
to those we love,
to a world longing to be met without judgment.

Let our breath become the prayer.
Let our stillness become the offering.

Inhale… rest in presence.

Exhale… trust that this is enough.

⸻

And so it is.
Amen.