This is how I give the child inside me the holiday they never had.
I know some people think it’s cringe to put up Christmas decorations as early as November. That a smart person should just roll their eyes at the candy-cane-themed store displays, and anyone with a bit of taste should at least feel a little overwhelmed when they hear the first notes of All I Want for Christmas. Honestly? For a long time, I agreed with that if anyone asked.
Basically, I’ve always seen myself as a bit sarcastic with dry humor—my friends know me that way—and I carried that attitude into Christmas too. Like it was expected. To scoff at snowflake mugs, grimace at fake trees, and make a face like it’s a personal offense when someone hangs lights on their balcony railing in early November.
But this year, something changed. At a key point in my self-discovery journey, I realized that cynicism was never really mine. I’d just been pretending that Christmas was “tacky,” “too much,” and “in bad taste.”
I’ve always secretly wanted the holiday to start in November.
To have decorations everywhere, and the house looking like a Santa factory exploded inside. To listen on repeat to the cheesiest Christmas songs and have sparklers flowing like a stream.
This isn’t about falling for some commercial holiday trap or suddenly losing my taste. It’s about realizing I want to give something to the child inside me that they never got.
My childhood Christmases weren’t magical. Not because of missing decorations or money—sure, we weren’t rich, but the holiday could have still been special. It was because I grew up in a home where it didn’t take much for beer bottles to appear. Family visits often meant my dad got drunk, and the “silent night” was more of a tension-filled evening. The modest gifts were often broken on the kitchen floor by the next day. Every year, I wished the winter break would end so I could go back to school, where at least I felt safe.
My childhood Christmases were simply stolen from me.
But now I’m the adult. I take care of that child inside me who couldn’t count on anyone back then. And this year, I’m giving them everything they missed: the cheesiest, most syrupy, happiest Christmas that could last for months.
Yes, this year I want every decoration. All the cheesy Christmas songs, and my home will be filled with glowing reindeer and snowflakes I’ll blow onto the windows. Because I want to make up for what that little kid was denied.
I don’t think the holiday is about appearances. I don’t believe Christmas is all about twinkling lights or gingerbread-scented candles. But I do believe this process is part of my healing. That if I give this child, who missed out on the magic, a winter wonderland now, maybe they’ll one day believe Christmas can be beautiful. And then they’ll also be able to appreciate the quiet and reflection.
For now, I comfort that child. I don’t judge or shame them for wanting something others call “tacky.” I just give them what they ask for. Because they deserve it.
And to you, reading this: next time your coworker sips hot chocolate from their Santa mug in a Christmas sweater, try not to roll your eyes. Maybe it’s not really them sitting there, but a little kid whose Christmas wishes are finally coming true.
