Lately, I have been thinking about how fast life feels. Probably because most of our nights are spent racing between cheer, soccer, play rehearsals, spontaneous singing performances, and whatever else we are involved in this time of year.

Every season comes with its own pile of stress, sales, countdowns, and the ongoing pressure to buy more, do more, and be more. Even things that used to feel simple, like family dinners and holidays that lived in our memories instead of in a shopping cart, now feel like they are competing for space.

Sometimes I look at Charli and Andi cracking up at the table over something ridiculous and getting along perfectly (which, if I’m being honest, can also be its own miracle), and I think this is the part I don’t want to lose in all the noise.

Maybe that is why the smallest moments feel more precious than ever.

I have started to notice that the meaningful parts of life don’t arrive with a bang. They show up in the messy, unscripted spaces. When I’m helping the girls with homework at the kitchen table. When Charli narrates every detail of her day, while I’m simultaneously cooking dinner. When Andi randomly breaks into a cheer routine, and suddenly whatever I was stressed about five minutes earlier evaporates.

They show up late at night when the house finally exhales, the lights are low, and everyone is asleep and quiet. Or on car rides between my Ubering when a friend gives advice I didn’t even know I needed, and ends up being right. (My friend Allie is truly the queen of this.)

Maybe that is the beauty of life right now, meaning doesn’t always live in the milestone moments. Sometimes it is in the pauses, the conversations, and my unglamorous routines. The places where nobody is really looking except me. As Hanukkah approaches, I keep coming back to how beautifully simple the holiday really is. It has always been about light. Just a small flame in the window, steady, warm, and on purpose.

Growing up, I didn’t think about symbolism. You spin the dreidel, you eat latkes, you get presents, you light candles. It was tradition. But parenting has a way of making you pay attention to the parts you used to overlook. And when I watch my girls take everything in, I notice that the miracle was not ostentatious or loud. It was something tiny lasting longer than expected. A little bit of oil carrying more light than anyone thought possible.

There’s something powerful in that simplicity, especially now.

Every year, decorations get louder, wish lists get longer, and a lot of families end up blending traditions because that is what the stores are marketing. (Mensch on a Bench, our Jewish elf, was invented by a guy here in Cincinnati.)

Hanukkah encourages something different. It reminds us that a single flame is enough. That miracles don’t require volume, that small things matter, and that meaning doesn’t need glitter to be meaningful (yes, another one of my glitter references).

This year, I am trying to channel my inner Sheryl Sandberg and lean into it. To notice the way Charli and Andi’s faces glow when we light the menorah, not because the moment is big but because it’s one I want to remember. To appreciate the smell of latkes even when the whole house smells like oil, including my upstairs bedroom. To sink into the quiet right after the blessings when the room feels softer and warmer, almost like time pauses long enough for me to see how lucky I am.

Maybe savoring these moments isn’t about disconnecting. Maybe it is about choosing what deserves our attention. Not the pressure to keep up, but the invitation to slow down. Not the perfect photo, but the imperfect ritual. Not the noise, but the light.

Life moves fast, and these moments slip through our fingers if we aren’t paying attention.

But when we pause, even for a second, they stand out. Tuesday breakfasts, late night giggles when my girls are having a sleepover in each other’s rooms, random car ride stories that turn into real conversations. The way kids invent fun out of nothing. Coming home to a space that feels like us, not whatever trend is currently screaming the loudest.

So as we head into Hanukkah, that’s what I want to hold onto. Let the world be loud if it wants to be; I am choosing something quieter. I am choosing something already here,  a small flame that stays. Because maybe the real miracle has always been that the simplest moments outlast everything else.

The noise will fade,  the trends will shift, and the season will change, but the warmth, the connection, the light we make at home, that is what remains.