Ah, Christmas. The season of cheer, goodwill, and intense competitions to see who can have the most lights crammed onto their condo balcony without tripping the circuit breaker. If you’ve ever wondered how a magical gift-giving man and a tree covered in baubles ended up sharing space in December, welcome to Christmas: the holiday where history, culture, and a bit of mystery come together in a tinsel-covered package.
This year, though, it feels… different. No tree, no twinkling lights, no playlist of songs about reindeer or snow. Being sick this season has taken the usual festive chaos and turned it into silence. And yet, as I sit here sipping tea and staring at my undecorated condo, I find myself missing something. The tricky part is, I’m not sure what it is.
Let’s start with the obvious question: Is Christmas about stuff? Because, let’s face it, it often seems like it. Advertisers want us to believe joy is measured in square footage of wrapped boxes. And while gifts are fun—because who doesn’t enjoy unwrapping a mystery?—they don’t explain the pull of the season.
Maybe it’s the lights. There’s something magical about a glow in the dark days of winter, whether it’s a simple strand of lights on a balcony or a neighbor’s epic attempt to replicate Vegas. But my condo is dark this year, and while I miss the glow, it’s not the glow itself I’m longing for.
Could it be the traditions? The cookies, the songs, the warm fuzziness of watching holiday movies while wondering if the people in them actually own snow boots? Those things are lovely, but they’re the sprinkles on the cookie, not the cookie itself.
I think what I’m really missing is the feeling of Christmas—the part that can’t be hung, wrapped, or lit up. It’s the quiet moments of connection, the spark of kindness in unexpected places, and the comfort of knowing that, for a few days, we try just a little harder to be good to one another.
The holidays are a human thing, after all. They’re about the rituals we’ve created to make winter feel less cold and life a little warmer. Whether it’s decorating, exchanging gifts, or simply pausing to share a meal, it’s not the specific act that matters—it’s the intent behind it.
So this year, even without the decorations and the noise, I’m trying to hold onto that intent. The spirit of Christmas doesn’t come from a tree or lights or songs; it comes from the way we reach out, even in small ways, to connect, to celebrate, and to hope for something brighter.
Maybe that’s what I’m missing. And maybe that’s what it’s always been about.
Next year, I hope I’ll be back to decorating, laughing at cheesy movies, and eating far too many cookies. But for now, I’m letting Christmas be what it is—quiet, imperfect, and still meaningful. Because sometimes, the meaning of Christmas isn’t something you do—it’s something you feel.
Here’s to finding your own version of Christmas, wherever and however it shows up. And if you need a little spirit this year, you can borrow some of mine—condo-sized, cozy, and hopeful enough to get through.
Tell me what Christmas means to you.
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