Christmas Didn’t Get Worse, We Just Became the Adults Paying for It

Spoiler: The Christmas Spirit Was Just My Mom Doing Unpaid Emotional Labor

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The most wonderful time of the year always seems to arrive carrying chronic stress in one hand and paralyzing nostalgia in the other.

The holiday season sneaks up on me every single year. One minute it’s late October and I’m just trying to survive deadlines and daylight savings, and the next I’m being emotionally waterboarded by Mariah Carey at Target.

It’s that time when we’re supposed to feel merry and grateful and wrapped in the warm glow of Christmas magic. And yet, for reasons absolutely no one wants to admit, most of us are one peppermint-scented panic attack away from losing it.

We’re supposed to be joyful. We’re supposed to adore the family gatherings, be generous, reflective, and effortlessly wholesome. And if we don’t, if the holiday spirit doesn’t just descend on us like divine glitter, we’re labeled the household Grinch.

Recently I’ve felt that familiar holiday pressure creeping back in, the kind that makes you wonder if adulthood is just one long to-do list wearing a sequined sweater.

And even through all of that chaos, I still want the magic I felt as a kid. That dizzying, chest-tight joy that hit the second the Christmas bins came out of the basement.

Back then, Christmas wasn’t something I created. It simply happened to me.

Somewhere between the bills, the laundry, the Amazon carts, and the group chat debates over Secret Santa rules, I started wondering when the magic disappeared.

But when I dragged my own Christmas bins out of storage, it finally hit me:

It didn’t disappear. It was never floating around in the air or hiding in snowflakes. It was built.

Layer by layer. Ritual by ritual.

And, of course, it was built by my mom.

She was the one who made it magical. The one who somehow turned a college-town (Go Badgers) Wisconsin December into something that felt cinematic.

She baked cookies until the house smelled like sugar and warmth. She wrapped gifts with bows so perfect it felt like a crime to untie them. She made the ordinary, snow on the driveway, candles on the table, feel like evidence that the world could still be soft and whimsy.

The truth is, I miss the magic not because it’s gone, but because I’ve finally realized it was never effortless. It was made by someone who loved us enough to create it.

And now… that someone is me.

That realization hit hard this year. While I’ve been busy stressing about money, work, and the never-ending list of people I still need to shop for, I forgot that I have the same ability to build magic.

The same power to hang the lights, set the tone, and create something warm, even if no one thanks me for it.

It’s easy to romanticize childhood Christmases when you don’t see the effort behind the curtain.

You don’t see the exhaustion, the planning, the mental math of “how do I make this special without losing my mind or my checking account.” But that’s the real magic, isn’t it? Creating wonder for others when you’re tired.

Choosing joy for others not to take any credit but to infect others with magical wonder and cheer.

This year, I’m choosing to believe that the magic never actually fades, it just changes hands.

So I’ll make the hot chocolate, even if it’s the cheap kind. I’ll hang the crooked garland, light the candles, and play the same Bing Crosby album my dad used to put on before my brother and I were allowed to come downstairs.

I’ll create the magic I’ve been missing, not because I have to, but because I finally understand why she did.

And maybe somewhere between the wrapping paper and the dishes, I’ll feel it again. That quiet, impossible spark that makes the world glow for a second.

Because the magic was never lost.

It just grew up, right alongside me.

And yes, Santa is still real. Don’t be ridiculous.