Last Christmas, I learned something I didn’t want to learn, but desperately needed.
I went into the season determined to do it “right.” I kept lists, pushed through errands, said yes to things I should’ve paused on, and told myself I could rest later. I tried to keep up with the lights, the plans, the expectations, and the invisible pressure that whispers, Don’t disappoint anyone.
My body had other plans.
Somewhere in the middle of December, everything caught up to me at once, the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel heavy, the kind of pain that turns simple tasks into steep hills, and the kind of brain fog that makes you lose words mid-sentence. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed staring at the Christmas tree and thinking, I’m ruining this.
But that wasn’t the truth. It just felt like the truth.
What actually happened is that I finally stopped trying to force the season to fit my body, and started letting the season be smaller.
I canceled what I could. I shortened what I couldn’t. I swapped “hosting” for “dropping off.” I chose simple meals instead of complicated ones. I let gift bags do the heavy lifting. I turned down the noise. I took breaks without asking permission. I learned to say, “I can come for a little while,” and to leave before I hit the wall.
One afternoon, on a day I felt especially fragile, someone sent a message I still think about:
“You don’t have to show up big to be loved.”
It landed like water on dry ground.
By the time Christmas arrived, it didn’t look like the version I had pictured. Some traditions changed. Some plans didn’t happen. Some things were quieter than usual. And I won’t pretend there wasn’t grief in that. There was.
But there was also something else I didn’t expect: relief.
The day felt gentler. The lights still glowed. The people who truly cared didn’t measure my love by my output. And in the quiet moments, I felt God’s kindness in a way I hadn’t when I was sprinting.
Now that the season is behind me, I can say this with a steadier heart: my smaller holiday wasn’t a failure. It was a mercy.
I didn’t ruin Christmas. I protected what mattered.
I protected my health. I protected my peace. I protected my ability to be present in the ways I actually could. And I learned that love doesn’t demand collapse as the entry fee.
So if you’re looking back at the holidays and feeling guilty because yours was different, let me gently offer what I wish someone had told me sooner:
A different holiday isn’t a broken holiday.
If you rested more than you participated, that counts.
If you left early, that was wisdom.
If you simplified everything, that was strength.
If you couldn’t do what you used to do, you were not failing, you were adapting.
And if all you managed was to make it through, that is not “less than.”
That is brave.
Because the truth is, the holidays come and go. But your body is the one you live in every day after the decorations come down.
Last Christmas taught me to choose compassion, even for myself. And I’m carrying that lesson forward, long after the season ended.
You can too. 💚