10.29.2025

Much has changed in my neighborhood over the nearly fourteen years I’ve lived here.

Relationships have ended. Friends have moved away. Family members have passed. And through it all, I’ve had to learn, again and again, how to walk through doors I never wanted to open.

One thing’s for sure — change has been a steady, and not always welcome, visitor.

But through all that shifting and loss, one thing remained constant. One small, shining thing I could always count on.

At the end of my street stood a condo, and in every one of its windows, tall white candles glowed. Not real candles, but electric ones that burned day and night, 24/7/366. I didn't know the couple who lived there — we were neighbors, technically, but strangers in truth — and yet, their light reached me all the same.

In the early years, when I was rebuilding my life, I’d drive past that condo on my way to work. Before turning the corner, I’d slow down just long enough to take in the warmth of the candlelight. I would stare at them and think, "I'll be okay. I just need to get through today. The light will be here when I come home."

When I would drive back from the nursing home after visiting my mother — those long, heavy drives when grief rode shotgun with me every single day — the candles were there, too, steady and waiting. They didn’t make the ache disappear, but somehow they seemed to soften it.

After each corporate downsizing, when I was looking for another job, those candles never dimmed. It was as if they were saying, If not this job, then another. Somewhere out there, there’s still a place for you.

And they weren’t just there for sorrow. They burned bright for joy, too — after a show I directed, after my first book was published. I’d come home and the light seemed to shimmer with pride: Well, look at you. You go, girl. You’ve got this.

Then, a few weeks ago, I got a text from a neighbor. The man who lived in the condo — the last of the couple — was in the hospital, and his condition was serious. That day, as I drove past his home, the candles were still lit. I hoped they were burning for him this time, to guide him home again.

But the next week, an unfamiliar car was parked in his driveway. The garage door was open, and already it was filled with boxes and furniture waiting to be moved. And the windows — every single one — were dark.

The candles that had guided me, comforted me, celebrated with me… were gone. Our cul-de-sac hadn’t just lost a neighbor. We’d lost the keeper of the light.

At first, I found myself hoping that whoever moved in would put the candles back. But maybe that’s the wrong hope. Maybe it’s not about waiting for someone else to shine the light. Maybe it’s about someone else carrying on their legacy.

So I bought the same type of candles. And this Christmas, I’ll place them in my windows — and I will leave them there, lit, for as long as I can.

Because I know someone else might need to see them, just like I once did. Someone else will need strength, or comfort, or peace. And when they turn the corner and see those lights glowing in the dark, I want them to know — they’re home. They’ve got this. And they’re going to be okay.

“Candle in the Wind,” written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin, © 1973 by Dick James Music Ltd.