Christina Collins

There was a time when the kitchen felt like the center of everything in my life — music playing, food simmering, conversations unfolding naturally. Hosting came from abundance. From familiarity. From a life that had a predictable shape. I could do it with my eyes closed, and I loved cooking for other people.

It doesn’t come easily to me anymore.
And I miss it terribly.

I still want to plan meals and think about menus and set a table that makes people feel welcome. The desire is there. But the execution isn’t. I can’t seem to bring it together. I can’t even remember the last time I hosted a dinner — I think it was August of 2024, for my friend Frank’s birthday. That night stands out because it may have been the last time before things really started to fall apart.

Divorce takes time in ways no one really prepares you for. Not just emotionally, but practically. The paperwork. Accounts being divided. Address changes. New email accounts. Credit cards. Cell phone plans. Insurance. Responsibilities that arrive all at once and don’t care how tired you are. Learning how to survive on a single salary after building an entire adult life around two.

It’s administrative and exhausting and constant.
It hums in the background of everything.
It’s relentless.

And all of that exists alongside the good things.

New people. New connections. Moments of genuine laughter. Small sparks of excitement I didn’t expect to feel again. I often feel suspended between who I was and who I’m becoming — not fully either, but carrying pieces of both.

I heard a song recently that stopped me in my tracks — Two Things Can Be True. It put words to something I’ve been living without knowing how to name.

I am overwhelmed by the realities of rebuilding a life, and still grateful for what’s growing.
I am grieving what’s gone while feeling hope for what’s ahead.
I miss the ease of my old identity while trusting that something meaningful may return in a different form.

Two things can be true.

Right now, I’m learning to let both truths sit at the same table.

I don’t have answers yet. I don’t have a new rhythm fully formed. What I do have is honesty about where I am — and permission to stop pretending I have energy for things I don’t.

And maybe that’s part of the rebuilding too.

People assume you’re grieving the breakup.
And yes, of course you are.
But the truth is bigger, harder to explain, and nearly impossible for people who haven’t lived it to understand.

When someone leaves after two decades, they don’t just take themselves.
They take the traditions, the rhythm, the structure, the “us” that once made the season make sense.

You’re left standing in the middle of your home holding ornaments from a life that doesn’t exist anymore.

And no one talks about that part.

What do you do with the decorations?

This is the question that ambushes you — in a basement, in an attic, or a storage unit where the air smells like cardboard and endings.

You open a box and feel your stomach drop.
Not because it’s filled with Christmas décor, but because it’s filled with your old identity.

Stockings you chose together.
An ornament from your first year of marriage.
A tree skirt you bought during a year when you still believed in forever.

You ask yourself:
Do I throw these out?
Do I keep them?
Do I force myself to use them so it all feels “normal”?
What even is normal now?

No answer feels right.
And that’s the part no one talks about — how the smallest things become emotional landmines.

Family can feel “too familiar” to feel comfortable

Family is supposed to feel comforting.
And mine really is loving and supportive in all the ways that matter.

But healing can make even familiar spaces feel unfamiliar.
Sometimes being with the people who know you best brings up old versions of yourself — versions you can’t quite access anymore. It’s not about them at all. It’s about how much your life has shifted.

They remember the “before” you.
You feel that version when you’re around them. And you miss the old you.
But that person doesn’t exist anymore. And not by choice. The contrast can sting in ways that are hard to put into words.

None of that is their fault.
Friends and Family care. They want to help. They show up.

It’s just that their traditions, their rhythms, their normal —
all highlight how much your world has changed.

The grief isn’t about them.
It’s about realizing you don’t feel like the same person anymore, even in the places that once felt most like home. But their traditions remind you of who you were before your world shifted in a single moment. And it feels really, really heavy.

And then there’s the new chapter

A new home.
A new space.
Someone else’s traditions already in motion.

It’s tender, beautiful, and strangely disorienting to build a sense of “yours” in a place that was fully “theirs” long before you arrived. You’re grateful to be welcomed into a warm, loving, established holiday rhythm — yet quietly aware that you’re still figuring out where your own pieces fit, and which ones you even want to keep.

All while carrying the truth that your name has been pulled off Christmas card lists, that you won’t be invited to chicstmas parties or celebration dinners with old friends, and that the Christmas Eve tradition you once treasured doens’t exisit for you anymore, because “he” will probably be there, so you can’t be. It’s all so confusing.

There’s no guidebook for how to blend your past, your grief, and someone else’s long-held traditions.
I’m just trying to learn as I go.

So I’m not trying to reinvent anything this year

I’m not forcing myself to be festive.
I’m not trying to create brand-new traditions overnight.
I’m not pretending to be healed or wise or above it all.

I’m doing one small thing at a time.
Whatever doesn’t hurt.
Whatever feels honest.

Maybe I’ll light a Christmas candle.
Maybe I’ll cook something comforting.
Maybe I’ll simply admit,
“This is still hard, and that’s okay.”

And maybe that’s enough for now

Not a lesson.
Not advice.
Just the truth of where I am.

I’m slowly rebuilding a life that feels like mine —
and trusting that, in time, the holidays will begin to feel like mine again too.

November 23, 2025.

For nearly two decades, Friendsgiving was my holiday. Some years it was an elegant dinner party, others it was an all-out rager—but no matter the form, it was always a celebration of food, friendship, and good times. I’d spend days (weeks) planning, cooking, and setting up the gratitude tree. And every year, without fail, my friends looked forward to one thing most: my Thanksgiving Pizza.

A flatbread layered with cranberry sauce, shredded turkey, stuffing, melted cheese, and a drizzle of gravy—the ultimate bite of Thanksgiving comfort. It started as a leftover experiment and became a tradition that outlasted many others.

This year, one year after my husband left to start a new life, I find myself reflecting on those memories with a complicated mix of joy and ache. I miss those days. The laughter, the fullness—both of heart and table. I am trying to make peace with the memories, but it’s harder than most can imagine. Sometimes I scroll through old photos and feel the warmth of those moments rise up—then just as quickly, a wave of sadness follows. My mind whispers, If it ended, did it even matter?

But deep down, I know it did. The joy was real. The laughter, the toasts, the music echoing through the kitchen—it all mattered. Even if that chapter closed, it was once full of love. I’m still learning to hold both truths at once: that something can be beautiful and still end; that gratitude and grief can share the same table.

So, as I move through this holiday season, I’m grateful for both the old and the new—the people who once filled my home, and the ones who will someday gather around my table again. One day, I’ll host another Friendsgiving, with new faces and fresh traditions. And when I do, I’ll proudly make that Thanksgiving Pizza again—because some traditions are worth keeping.

Until then, I wish you a holiday filled with love, laughter, and the kind of feast and merriment that makes memories worth savoring.

When tradition was too hard to face, I embraced a new culture.

Last year was the hardest Thanksgiving of my life. I was too fragile to be alone, yet too broken to join a holiday table. My world had just collapsed, and I could barely eat, let alone celebrate. My sister and cousin—two of the most wonderful humans in the world—didn’t leave my side. They each canceled their own plans with their families and significant others, choosing instead to sit with me during one of the darkest weeks of my life.

I can’t recall who suggested it, but one of them said we should do something completely different that year—no turkey, no stuffing, no reminders of what I’d lost. “Let’s go out for Greek,” they said, and that’s exactly what we did.

The idea felt strange at first, but I agreed because I couldn’t bear anything that resembled the life I once knew. The thought of other families gathered around their tables, laughing, sharing, celebrating—it was too much. My husband had already moved on with someone else long before he officially left. That week, he was with her. I knew it. And that truth lived like a weight in my chest I couldn’t breathe through.

When we arrived at the bustling Greek restaurant in upstate New York, we were welcomed joyfully to sit amongst the many others who, for whatever reasons of their own, were also not celebrating Thanksgiving in the traditional manner. There was something comforting about knowing I wasn’t the only one who needed a reason to be there and not somewhere else that evening. It smelled of lemon, garlic, and roasted tomatoes—warm, but not familiar.

I sat there, quiet, unable to pretend I was having fun, but for the first time in days, I decided to try a real meal. I ordered shrimp baked with tomatoes and feta. The dish was rich with olive oil, garlic, and herbs—finished with briny melted feta that finished the dish. It was simple, but soulful. And it was as far away from a traditional Thanksgiving dinner as I could get. It was in that Greek restaurant, surrounded by two people who refused to let me face the world alone, I began to realize how different my life was about to become. It was both a humbling and overwhelming realization.

That meal was the first thing that stayed down in days—and it would become one of the last full meals I ate for a long time to come. Dark days were ahead for me, and my relationship with food would reflect that.

As I reflect on the anniversary of that time in my life, I wanted to honor it by recreating the meal that marked the end of Thanksgiving as I once knew it—and the beginning of something unknown. It reminds me that comfort doesn’t always come from what’s familiar. Sometimes it’s found in the unexpected—new flavors, new traditions, new beginnings.

Grief, comfort food, and my slow return to joy.

I’ve always believed that food tells our stories—especially the ones we don’t have words for. And for a long time, I couldn’t tell mine…

When my marriage ended unexpectedly, the kitchen—a place that once felt alive and creative—fell silent. Cooking had always been my love language, not just to others but also to myself. But when love itself felt lost, so did my connection to food. There were nights I tried to cook again. I’d plan something, gather the ingredients, and then abandon it halfway through. Other nights, I’d make a full meal… only to let it sit untouched on the counter until morning.

I wanted to want food again, but I just couldn’t.

I lost a lot of weight on this journey—not because I wanted to, but because food just made me sad. Every meal reminded me of a memory– then just as quickly, I’d be reminded that no new memories were being made around my dining room table that was once filled with feast and merriment. It was all too much.

Grief robs you of your appetite.
It robs you of energy, taste, curiosity—sometimes even the will to nurture yourself.

Friends & Support

What I didn’t expect was how grief changes your social appetite too.

When you go from being in a couple to being single, something really hard happens. You stop getting invited to dinners and events and social occasions that you once were an integral part of. You get treated as if there is something wrong with you. And people treat you like you have something contagious that they don’t want to catch. I’m come to call it divorce disease. Then, there are the times you do get an invitation and you can’t tell if it’s pity, or if people still genuinely want you there. Your new single nature makes everyone uncomfortable– but no one more than the person who has show up newly alone and go home feeling embarrassed, uncomfortable and unsteady about it all. It’s one of the hardest things to overcome when you have to go through this. It’s all a mind game. And it all happens around a table.

So for a long time, I avoided those gatherings. The thought of clinking glasses and small talk around shared plates made me ache with discomfort. I would stress over the check coming and how to pay for my single, uneaten portion, when surrounded by couples—things I hadn’t had to consider in more than twenty years.

Then, slowly, small threads began to pull me back toward connection. A check-in from an old friend. A dinner invitation from a new one. A place saved for me at a holiday table. Each small kindness reminded me that I was still part of the world—and that I mattered.

It was during this time that one person—someone patient and kind —began to remind me what nourishment could feel like again. A dinner invitation that would, in time, change everything. But in that moment, the bravery came simply from me saying yes to sitting down and sharing a meal, and keeping it down. The courage to let someone in who cared enough to feed not just my body, but also my spirit.

Beginning to recognize and accept those quiet acts of care were the signs of the healing—proof that comfort isn’t just something we eat. It’s something we offer each other as humans.

Back to roots with comfort food.

When I was a kid, chicken pot pie was my favorite dinner. Not the homemade kind—the ones that came frozen from the grocery store in a little foil tin. I didn’t wait by the oven or watch it brown; I just looked forward to it being ready to eat. I didn’t know it then, but chicken pot pie was my childhood comfort food.

Years later, when I started Feast & Merriment, one of the first recipes I shared was a homemade version of that childhood favorite. It even ended up published in Greenwich Lifestyle Magazine as a feature recipe. Back then, when it was published, food was my greatest joy—a way to show love, inspire connection, and make people feel cared for.

It’s funny how food can carry us home, even when “home” no longer looks the same. Maybe that’s why comfort food is called comfort food. It doesn’t just taste good—it reminds us that even after loss, there’s still warmth to be found.

So, as I relaunch Feast & Merriment 2.0, it only feels right to start where it all began—with the dish that started it all back in 2010.

So here’s to nourishment in all its forms—the meals we share, the ones we abandon, and the ones that remind us, slowly and tenderly, that we’re still alive.

With love and gratitude,
Chrissy 💛