We’re well into the festive season again—the hardest part of the year for me. This time of year stirs up a whirlwind of difficult feelings, ones I often feel I can’t talk about without dragging others down. But today, I’ve decided to unpack some things that weigh on my mind.
First off, let me make one thing clear: I’m not a “Scrooge”. Sure, I might joke about being one occasionally, but that’s just my way of pre-empting the ignorant and unfair accusations that sometimes get thrown around when you express distress around the festive season. The truth is, I don’t hate Christmas—I just struggle with it deeply, and I’ve had to learn how to limit how much I expose myself to it.
There’s a lot I find hard about this season. One of the biggest things is the expectation to appear happy, as if society demands that the mask I wear every other day of the year should now be adorned with tinsel. That pressure alone is exhausting. Nobody wants to be enjoying festive cheer around someone who drags the vibe down.
On top of that, there’s the anxiety of gift-giving. I’m hopeless at gifts. Absolutely terrible. I feel like I’m disconnected from what “normal” people like because my own interests are so niche. When I think I’ve had a thoughtful idea for someone, it often backfires, leaving me feeling more hesitant to take risks the next time. It doesn’t help that I don’t personally value traditional gift staples—scents, jewellery, ornaments, or clothes—so I can’t intuitively gauge whether those things make good gifts for others. I try my best. I keep a running list of things loved ones mention throughout the year, but even that’s not fool proof. And the mental strain of overthinking, second-guessing, and comparing ideas feels like an uphill climb I can never quite conquer, especially with a limited concentration span. Even when I do manage to choose something, there’s still the stress of worrying about their reaction—will it disappoint them? Did I get it wrong again? Are they just pretending to like it?
Then there’s the flip side: showing my appreciation when I receive gifts. I’m always terrified my reaction will seem insincere or that my gratitude won’t match their effort. The entire process feels like a high-stakes performance, and honestly, it’s exhausting.
And don’t even get me started on the social aspect. The sudden expectation to catch-up with everybody you know before “the big day”. Large group gatherings that are utterly overwhelming—full of noise, chatter, small-talk and chaos that leave me feeling drained from sensory overload. I’d much rather share a quiet one-on-one over a cup of tea, where I can feel more in-control, grounded and comfortable.
That said, I recognize how lucky I am to have a family who want to include me in their celebrations. I don’t take that for granted. But maybe I’m spoiled in a way—I see my family regularly throughout the year, so our Christmas gatherings don’t feel as uniquely precious to me as they might to someone who sees them infrequently.
I do love certain aspects of the festive season—the crisp, cold weather, the twinkling lights, the sudden societal approval of eating junk food, and the Christmas specials on TV. Part of me wishes the season was limited to just that, without all the added expectations and pressures that fill me with dread.
A few years ago, my partner decided he’d had enough of us falling into debt every year buying gifts for an ever-growing list of people. He wanted to stop entirely. At first, I hesitated, worried about what others might think of us, but I came to accept it would ease a significant amount of pressure on both of us.
Still, I struggled. Even when we pleaded with people to not buy us gifts, I knew some would do it anyway, and I hate feeling indebted to anyone. I recall expressing my panic and frustration poorly at the time, using wording like, “buying me a gift to make themselves feel better”. Taken out of context, I know how awful that sounds, implying a kind gesture has become something selfish. I didn’t mean it the way it came across, but I’m notorious for saying the wrong thing when I’m overwhelmed. I ruminate on that incident to this day. Ultimately, I know how lucky I am that people want to give me gifts at all, whether out of obligation or genuine affection. That’s a privilege I try to remember and appreciate.
People like to say, “It’s not about the presents, it’s about the presence”. But the hard truth is that, for me, all of it is difficult. No matter how much love and positivity surrounds it, the season still feels overwhelming. None of it is my loved ones’ fault—it’s all me. I don’t understand why we need to behave differently “because it’s Christmas”. Isn’t it all just a construct anyway?
I get why people love it, and why they feel a special connection to this time of year. I wish I were one of those people. But I can’t ignore that it feels like a religious festival hijacked by corporate greed, and I’m not religious. As a child, I enjoyed Christmas because I didn’t have the burden of making it special for others. I have my lovely mum to thank for creating that magic every year. Now, as an adult, the responsibility I put on myself to create magic for others is simply too heavy for me to carry. I’m not amazing like my mum.
A few years ago, my partner said something that still stings: “I used to love Christmas”. I took it personally, as though he were putting the whole blame on me for “ruining” it for him. This was around the time I finally started stepping back from pushing myself to the brink of illness every year. At some point, I realized I had to be more assertive. It doesn’t seem fair that the weight of making Christmas live up to the hype should fall on someone who finds the season so deeply challenging. And yet, I still try—every year. We go to every event and gathering he chooses. I buy gifts he’s specifically asked for. We put up fairy lights and a tree to decorate if he wants to get in the mood. We watch festive films, including his favourite: Elf. I do all of this out of love, never letting him feel like I’m doing it begrudgingly. And still, it feels like it’s never enough. Can I really be to blame if Christmas doesn’t feel magical to him anymore? Is he just projecting because of his own bleak outlook on life, or perhaps mourning the loss of how Christmas felt when he was a child?
Every year, I find myself counting down to it all being over. But I can’t say that to people—admitting it makes you sound miserable, rather than someone simply trying to protect themselves from spiralling.