'Last Christmas I handed my son to his dad in tears. This year will be different.'

Before I ever became a Mum, I carried a quiet dream for the kind of Christmas I'd create one day. The kind built on backyard chaos, Xmas food, water bombs, cousins who felt like friends, and the electric excitement of knowing Santa had definitely visited.

Those childhood moments shaped something in me. They planted a picture of a future Christmas; my son, my home, our traditions. A Christmas that felt safe, joyful and whole.

For a while, I believed I was moving toward that. I had the marriage, the home, the plan, the future I thought would hold those moments. Until life changed in ways I never imagined.

Watch: The women quietly quitting their husbands. Post continues after video.

Last year, I walked into December carrying a heaviness I didn't have words for. My marriage had ended, and I was sitting inside the emotional rubble of the life I had tried so hard to build. I was grieving the family I once pictured, the Christmas mornings I thought I'd wake up to, and the idea that I'd created something unbreakable.

I knew when I became a mum that Christmas would be something I wanted to protect every single year. I built my work and my business around having that time with him, creating space so we could enjoy it together without rushing or sacrificing the moments that matter. And now, being separated, that choice isn't mine in the same way anymore.

Earlier that year, I had published an article on Mamamia about something that I never thought would happen; I have a freezer full of embryos and I'm not allowed to use them. When you separate, embryos legally become part of property, and my husband wouldn't give permission for me to have them. I had a choice: to destroy them or donate them to science. So I chose to donate them. Every last one.

That truth still sits quietly in the background of my life. My son may be the only child I ever have, and acknowledging that opened a grief of its own. So last year, when Christmas arrived, I was barely present. I rushed through the morning into lunch. Watching the clock to know when to leave to meet my now ex-husband halfway and hand my son over. I watched him leave with the present we had wrapped for his family, wearing the outfit I had chosen, and I drove away sobbing with an empty backseat.

It wasn't the Christmas I imagined growing up, and it wasn't the one I dreamed of giving my child.

This year feels completely different. I spent 12 months committed to doing the deep, uncomfortable inner work and changed my life from the inside out.

I invested heavily in myself through therapy, mindset support, nervous system work, sitting with emotions I once pushed down, showing up for myself even when it felt easier to distract or avoid. I didn't rush into dating or try to fill the quiet with noise. I learned how to fill it with me.

Slowly, I began rebuilding the version of myself I needed to be for my son; grounded, present, steady.

And somewhere in that process, I found myself.

This year, my son knows who Santa is.

He lights up when he talks about him.

He notices decorations in the shops. And for the first time, I get to bring the magic to life with him.

We're creating our own traditions now.

We take Christmas photos in matching pyjamas; something I never had growing up, yet something that feels special because it's ours. We walk down the street looking at Christmas lights. We decorate our tree together, even if most baubles end up on the same branch. We wrap presents side-by-side, tape stuck everywhere, laughter spilling through the room.

On Christmas Eve, we'll place the milk and cookies out for Santa.

On Christmas morning, I'll watch his face when he realises Santa has come.

And in that moment, I know I'll feel something I wished for last year… pride.

Pride in the woman I became through one of the hardest seasons of my life.

Pride in the mother I am now.

Pride that my son gets this version of me.

If he is the only little person I ever get to share Christmas with, then he gets a mum who's grounded and joyful and entirely present.

A mum who did the painful work so she could finally step into the magic she once dreamed of giving.

Feature Image: Supplied.

Tash Miller is a Business Strategist and Performance Partner specialising inpsychology-informed performance. You can find her here.