The Cookie Day I Forgot To Celebrate

Yesterday was National Cookie Day, and I didn’t even realize it until the whole day had already slipped away. Honestly, that feels exactly like December. You wake up with a plan, coffee in hand, motivation high, telling yourself today is the day you are going to get ahead. Then the hours start moving in scenes instead of minutes. A message here, a Zoom meeting there, a quick task that somehow multiplies into five, and suddenly you look up, and the sky is dark like it sped ahead without you. December is sneaky like that. It is full and fast and a little chaotic if we are being honest.

Somewhere in the middle of all that blur, while I finally paused for the first time all day, I found myself thinking about Toll House cookies. The real ones. The kind that makes your whole house smell warm and safe. The kind that wrap around you like a memory, soft and sweet and comforting, even when everything else feels a little messy. And I started thinking about how every batch of cookies tells its own story. Some come out perfect, golden and round, looking like they were born for a magazine cover. Others spread too far, bump into each other, crack around the edges, or come out a little lopsided like they saw something traumatic in that oven. But here is the truth. They still taste sweet. They still belong on the tray. They still count.

Honestly, this entire year felt a lot like that. Some days were golden. They were warm, steady, and everything fell into place as if God Himself lined it all up just for me. Other days cracked. Some fell apart at the edges. Some came out nothing like what I imagined. But they were still mine, and they were still part of the story God was writing, full of grace, surprise, and lessons I did not even know I needed.

broken chocolate chip cookie

And because it is me, let me tell the truth. I am absolutely a snacking girl. Craft project? Snacking. Zoom call? Snacking. Quiet moment? Snacking. Deep thoughts? Oh, definitely snacking. And listen, if you come home, drop your bag, open the fridge, see a roll of cookie dough, and say, “This is dinner tonight,” I support that spiritual choice completely. Life is hard enough. Joy should be easy.

And speaking of coming home, there is this moment CP girls know better than anyone, that deep exhale when you are finally inside your own space. Because out in the world, every step is a tiny strategy session. Every slick floor and uneven sidewalk becomes a quiet coaching moment. Okay, girl, stay steady. Do not slip. Do not wobble. You have got this. One foot, now the other. When I walk through my front door, everything shifts. Shoes off. Pressure off. Expectations off. Bra off, because let us tell the truth, that is the first sign of peace.

Home is the one place where I do not have to perform stability. I do not have to hold myself like I am balancing on a tightrope. I do not have to pretend walking is effortless when, half the time, it is a whole choreography. At home, I finally get to rest. I get to move at my real pace, slow and soft and unbothered. I get to let the muscles unclench, let the body settle, and let the day slide off of me. So yes, when I ditch the bra, ditch the figurative stilettos, because let us be real, most of us CP girls are not out here risking a sprained ankle for fashion, and grab a spoon and a tub of raw cookie dough, that is not laziness. That is peace. That is recovery. That is my body whispering, “Thank you for getting us through. Now let me breathe.”

Joy does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it walks in softly, in the exact moment you finally pause and think, “Lord, I really needed this.” And even though I missed National Cookie Day, I am claiming it today. Because taking a moment to enjoy something small and simple feels like its own kind of gratitude. Whether your year looked like a perfect batch or a tray full of crumbs, there is still sweetness left to savor. There is still goodness tucked in the messy places. There is still a reason to look up and say, “Lord, I see You working in this.”

So here is my belated celebration, one Toll House cookie and, let us be honest, probably a spoonful of dough at a time.