Christmas has always been my absolute favorite time of year. The lights, the music, the chaos in stores, the smell of cinnamon pinecones the second you walk into Walmart — I swear the holidays flip a little switch inside me. I’m the girl who starts humming Christmas music in October and has zero shame about it.
But loving Christmas hits different when the person who is your home… isn’t home.
Every year, as soon as the decorations show up in stores, the world starts buzzing with that “warm fuzzy family season.” And there I am, DeAnna — the prison wife — trying to hold it together while everyone else is taking holiday photos in matching pajamas. Meanwhile, I’m over here making sure my husband has money on the books so he can buy ramen and instant coffee, praying the CO doesn’t shut the phone off before he calls, and hanging onto a fifteen-minute conversation like it’s a lifeline. Because honestly… it is.
Nobody warns you how the holidays hit when your person is locked up.
Nobody tells you how heavy the air feels when the house goes quiet.
Nobody prepares you for the ache that settles in your chest when you see couples out shopping for trees while you’re sitting there thinking, God, I hope he gets to shower today.
That’s the thing about being a prison wife during the holidays — it’s joy and grief elbowing each other for space. It’s wanting to decorate but also wanting to crawl under a blanket and cry. It’s being proud of your strength but exhausted from having to be strong all the damn time.
But let me say this loud and clear for every woman walking this road with me:
You are not alone.
You are not invisible.
You are not weak or foolish or “waiting for nothing.”
You are a warrior in lipstick and Christmas pajamas, fighting battles most people couldn’t survive for a week.
We are the women who love deep, pray hard, and keep showing up even when our hearts feel like they’re being stretched across barbed wire. We carry hope like it’s oxygen. We answer every call, write every letter, hold every tear inside until it’s safe to let it out. We anchor our men in a world that keeps trying to sink them.
And trust me — that matters.
To all the prison wives reading this:
It’s okay if Christmas hurts.
It’s okay if you don’t feel merry.
It’s okay if you’re decorating the tree with one hand and wiping tears with the other.
It’s okay if the only gift you want is a hug you can’t have right now.
You don’t have to pretend you’re okay just because the world expects holiday cheer.
This season, give yourself permission to be human.
Light a candle for your man.
Hang a stocking for him.
Write him a letter full of all your hopes for next year.
Let yourself smile when he crosses your mind, even if it aches.
And remember this:
Every day that passes brings you one day closer to him coming home.
For the women who are new to this life — welcome to a sisterhood built out of grit, prayer, and unconditional love. Here, nobody questions your loyalty or your sanity. We get it. We know the strength it takes to love someone society says you shouldn’t. We know the nights you cry yourself to sleep and still wake up the next morning determined to be his peace.
For the women who’ve been walking this path for years — I see you. I’m right there with you. The world doesn’t understand how your heart can break and still beat so fiercely, but I do.
So this Christmas, let’s take care of each other.
Share the little victories — the surprise call, the sweet letter, the “I miss you” that felt like a hug.
Celebrate the moments that give us just enough strength to make it through another day.
And when the hard days hit — the ones that punch you in the chest and steal your breath — reach out. Lean on your sisters. Let someone remind you that you’re not carrying this weight alone.
Because we’re all walking this road together. Our men may be behind walls, but our love isn’t. Our connection isn’t.
Love stretches farther than bars, gates, chains, and miles.
Love doesn’t have a release date.
Love finds a way — every damn time.
This year, I’m holding on to hope like it’s the star at the top of my tree. Hope in my husband. Hope in our future. Hope in the day he walks out of that gate and I get my Christmas back — the real one, the one with him in it.
Until then, I’m choosing to stay soft, stay strong, and keep loving him loudly.
To all my sisters:
You are powerful.
You are loved.
You are doing something most people could never handle — and you’re doing it with grace and grit.
I’m sending hugs, prayers, and holiday strength to each of you. And from one prison wife to another:
We’ve got this. And love will bring them home.
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