It’s Christmas Eve Eve and I’m standing in the airport, perusing the book selection. Actually, that’s not quite true. I’m currently avoiding my kids because they’re spending the two-hour wait for our plane bickering. They’re not brawling, which is a relief, and I know that their nitpicking is a result of their nervousness and mild anxiety.

No one is particularly thrilled that we’re heading off for a week of sun and sand, but they’re not terribly upset about it either.

I booked this trip months ago when I realized that I didn’t stand a chance of surviving the back-to-back gut punch of Christmas and the anniversary of Steve’s death without some kind of distraction.

The ocean has always been my go-to place to relax and re-center, and I figured some warm weather and sunshine wouldn’t hurt either.

The kids are looking forward to trying out snorkeling, ocean kayaking, and being on a tropical island. I had to promise them that there will be activities for all of them, separate from each other, but I also made them promise that we would try to do some things together as a family. I suspect that once they start making new friends, our family time will become negotiable, but if it helps them have fun and relax, I won’t mind a little alone time either.

A and I had gone to the book store a few weeks ago to stock up on books for the trip, neither one of us fond of e-books, especially when we’re sitting in bright sunlight. In addition to his favorite sci-fi, fantasy genre, he also had a few topical nonfiction books in his pile, putting my selection of pure trashy chick lit to shame. I’d already dipped into my stash and so far, had been disappointed by the utter pointlessness of the stories, all tritely ending happily ever after. I’m not really sure why I thought they’d be good choices to help distract me from my own unhappy ending and I was looking for something that was either better brain food, or at least something that didn’t tie up in a neat little bow.

Nonfiction is not usually my preferred reading, and self-help definitely isn’t, but it seemed that most of the non-fluff selections were exactly that: how to ... something. As I started reading the subtitles, I realized that almost all of them had something to do with overcoming setback, dealing with loss, coping with anxiety, and feeling better about yourself. I’ve noticed even with the few books I’ve read recently, and some of the movies I’ve watched, there seems to be a collective acknowledgment that all of us have been through “something” recently, typically the pandemic, or loss associated with it, but the national mood probably hasn’t helped either.

It was tempting. As I read the promises on the book jackets, I found myself thinking that maybe the answers that have eluded me all year might be sitting there on the shelf in front of me. I began writing my own trashy chick lit, my own little “meet cute” with the fix for everything. “There on a dusty shelf in the kiosk in the busy airport, were all the answers her shattered heart sought. ...” Oh, if only it were that easy. Instead, I grabbed a psychological thriller that was promoted by someone’s famous book club, a ginger ale, and a bag of chips.

Realizing that the additional salt and a three-hour flight was going to do a number on my ankles, I made myself take a few laps around the airport while we waited. Despite the weather delays that were plaguing most of the passengers, the Christmas spirit was evident among just about everyone. Santa hats, elf ears, and reindeer antlers festooned many a head. Bags of gifts were carefully balanced on top of rolling luggage. Families were looking forward to being reunited with whomever was waiting on the other end of their flights. A quick “Santa’s watching” seemed to silence almost every crying child.

Despite the overwhelming cheeriness, I knew not every passenger could possibly be here for a happy reason. I knew some of them had to be flying home for an unexpected illness or funeral, or returning home after saying goodbye to someone dear. The faces around me gave nothing away, though, most breaking into some sort of smile or nod when eye contact was made. I think I reflexively smiled or nodded back, although I’m not sure anymore - I don’t always control my emotions the way I should or do the things I’m expected to anymore. I’ve found myself choking as I spit out a “merry” or “happy” anything. Neither of them seems possible anymore and I feel like a fraud insinuating that they might be.

We’d had so many reasons to be optimistic last New Year’s. Steve was on the cusp of a career change, for the better, I’d started to settle into my own job change which was a positive one. Normalcy was returning to all the kids’ activities. We had wrestling matches and swim meets to look forward to attending. A had just landed the role he really wanted in the spring play, which was a folksy musical, whose style of music Steve loved. Puppy Henson was the right addition and perfect balance to Dunc, and Steve was excited to start running both dogs together. So many little things seemed to signal that 2022 was going to be “our year.”

Obviously, it wasn’t. Facing 2023 seems daunting. There are no resolutions other than doing whatever it takes to keep the kids on track, the dogs from chewing through the walls, and my own sanity as close to grounded as possible. We’re finding our way. It’s not easy, and it’s not always welcome, but it’s getting done. I hope your New Year is good to you and your family, and everyone’s is just a little better than 2022.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News.