Tinsel, Tantrums, and the Myth of Merry

The most wonderful time of the year always seems to come with a panic attack.

The holiday season always sneaks up on me, one minute it’s late October and I’m just trying to keep my head above deadlines and daylight savings, and the next I’m being emotionally waterboarded by Mariah Carey.

It’s officially the time of year when you’re supposed to feel merry, grateful, and bathed in the warm glow of nostalgia. And yet, for reasons no one likes to admit, most of us feel one peppermint-scented panic attack away from losing it.

Maybe it’s the endless list of things we’re supposed to feel. We’re supposed to be joyful. We’re supposed to love our family gatherings, be generous, reflective, and romantic. And if we don’t feel those things, if the holiday spirit doesn’t descend upon us like divine glitter, we start wondering if we’re broken.

The truth is, the holidays are emotionally confusing because they demand two conflicting things:

1. To slow down and savor the season.

2. To do fifty-seven things in three weeks with a smile plastered on your face.

It’s cozy chaos at its finest.

You’re supposed to bake cookies and buy meaningful gifts and attend every friend’s “ugly sweater party” (which, frankly, have all stopped being ironic). You’re supposed to decorate like Martha Stewart while maintaining your normal life, the job, the laundry, the emotional breakdown that no one schedules for December but somehow always shows up early, or is that just me...

And yet, somewhere under the pile of wrapping paper and social obligations, there’s this quiet ache to feel what we used to feel as kids. That pure, sugar-high version of joy that didn’t need mulled wine or matching pajamas to exist.

I think that’s what really makes this season stressful, the nostalgia tax.

The impossible task of chasing a feeling that only existed because we didn’t have to make it happen ourselves.

Now, joy comes with receipts.

But here’s the secret I’ve started to notice: the holidays only feel unbearable when you’re trying to earn them.

The magic doesn’t come from curated tablescapes or twinkly lights, it comes from those weird, unfiltered moments that no one posts about.

The burnt cookies. The laughter that turns into tears. The quiet car ride home from a family gathering where you realize, for better or worse, these are your people.

Maybe Christmas has always been equal parts beautiful and brutal. A reminder that joy and stress aren’t enemies, they’re twins who show up to every party together, uninvited but inevitable.

So this year, I’m lowering the bar. I’m letting the ornaments be uneven, the presents be practical, and the gatherings end early if they need to.

Because maybe the holidays were never meant to be about recreating joy, maybe they’re about noticing it when it shows up, quietly, between the noise.

And if that means my Christmas looks a little messier, so be it. I’ll toast to imperfection, hang the crooked wreath, and remind myself that surviving December is an accomplishment all on its own.

After all, nothing says “holiday spirit” quite like being exhausted, grateful, and somehow still hopeful, all at the same time.