With Christmas just around the corner—only eight days away!—I’m excited to dive into all the festive traditions that come with the season.
I find joy in stuffing my cats’ stockings with tuna treats and bouncy toys, adorning our tree with a twinkling star, and sneaking off to wrap presents for my boyfriend. I especially look forward to enjoying his homemade Puerto Rican coquito.
The apartment is filled with the delightful scents of cinnamon and gingerbread, bringing me a comforting warmth that feels both welcoming and strangely unfamiliar.
It struck me recently that my embrace of Christmas, despite not being religious, stems from a desire to create a sense of peace—something I missed in my childhood. For someone like me, who had a less-than-typical upbringing, this feeling is incredibly important.
As a child, I didn’t give much thought to Christmas. It meant receiving a simple art set from Angel Tree, an organization that provides gifts to children with incarcerated parents. The gifts often came with letters from those parents, written from prison, offering a thin connection during the holidays.
My mother knew of my interest in art and always requested those sets for me.
Unwrapping those gifts was fine, but reading my mom’s letter felt numbing. It paled in comparison to actually being with her—sharing surprises and hugs.
Back then, I didn’t realize I longed for the one thing I couldn’t have. To cope, I suppressed my feelings; I thought that an art set plus a letter meant Christmas.
This isn’t a complaint about Angel Tree. They provide an invaluable service, and I used those art supplies extensively. My mother did her best, and this isn’t a critique of her parenting. It’s simply my way of acknowledging that I didn’t feel what I thought I was supposed to feel during the holidays.
During my teenage years, I adopted a “too cool for Christmas” attitude, dismissing it as a capitalist ploy. When I worked at amusement parks, Christmas became just another opportunity for holiday pay. I embraced the same capitalism I once criticized.
I found myself wearing a prosthetic “Who nose” while stilt walking and entertaining guests. After long hours, I often questioned whether the pay was worth it.
It wasn’t.
I hold no ill will toward that job; many of my coworkers genuinely enjoyed celebrating Christmas this way. I just realized I was approaching it for the wrong reasons.
Now, I see that I used the holidays to feed my workaholic tendencies as a way to avoid confronting difficult emotions. Experts note this can be a symptom of parentification, where a child assumes adult responsibilities, often neglecting their own needs.
Miriam Njoku, a certified Trauma Recovery Coach, explains it well:
“When a child experiences prolonged trauma, they remain in a constant state of stress, seeking control through work as a means to escape their reality.”
As someone who grew up without a stable family and faced poverty, I sought control by focusing on making money.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point.
Taking my own version of a Great Resignation, I began to embrace Christmas as a chance to step back from my workaholic lifestyle. If everyone else could take a break, why shouldn’t I?
Did I decorate? Not really. But I did indulge in a Starbucks White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha and spent hours binge-watching Netflix.
As I savored the sweet drink, I wrapped myself in a cozy blanket, and for the first time in ages, I felt a wave of relaxation wash over me. It was rare to feel anything other than hypervigilance or anxiety. In that moment, I felt safe.
This experience marked a turning point for me.