Come In From The Cold: A History of My Relationship With Christmas

When did you meet me? Was it in my teens or early twenties, when hating Christmas felt like a character-defining aspect of my personality? Have you shouted at me for being a ‘scrooge’ or a ‘grinch’? Was it in recent years, where I’ve mellowed massively and will tell you about the wonderful time I’m having, heading home to my in-laws’ for the holiday, where I’ll be drinking mulled wine and eating until I can’t move? Did you know me as the person who’d take on any work shift at this time of year just to get out of the house, the person who fell back into being a customer service non-person without opinions or feelings, out of choice? Have you known me as a generous or a curmudgeonly spirit?

Much of my own growth and development can be charted by my relationship with Christmas festivities. It’s been a personal journey that I know others have been on, yet I don’t think people, by and large, have any empathy at all for negative associations people may have for this time of year. The rhetoric of ‘Christmas spirit’ is, in my experience, a vastly different prospect to how we actually conduct ourselves at Christmas, and many of us are intellectually aware that Christmas can embody the best and the worst of mankind without quite realising we ourselves are contributing to the problems. Yes, I know that you know the true spirit of Christmas is the friends we made along the way – but many people look at this celebration from the outside, willingly or not. Christmas is a behemoth that subsumes all social interactions, every year, and we might be in a better place as a society if, instead of being offended by their non-participation in our festival, we could reach out empathetically and understand their perspective.

What makes somebody hate Christmas?

Religious or ethical grounds. Lack of familial bonds. Social pressures. Lack of time and money. These are all entirely valid reasons to resent the festive season, and I myself have them all like a checklist, ticked and packed. I’m not going to go into the specific generational traumas that meant Christmases growing up were not what they might have been; suffice to say, my parents did not like Christmas, and thus as a child we had a run of unconventional celebrations before letting it fall away from our calendar entirely. My parents’ separation has not made it an easier time of year, and I have no particular wish to run around countries, continents or towns I haven’t been to in decades to hand over a panettone and have a cup of tea before going on to the next obligatory visit. Instead, I prefer to wait until the holiday crush on public transport is over, or there’s something we’d like to do together – a theatre show or a gallery exhibition is as good an excuse for meeting up as a festival. Whilst I recognise that for many people the bank holidays are an opportunity and the season is an excuse to get everyone together – including people they might not often see or who are difficult to travel to – there are a number of celebrants spending time with people they don’t like, constantly reminded that they are unable to escape the stresses of the season. No matter how far away you move, you’ve got to throw your kids in the car and listen to your brother’s sketchy jokes for another year instead of taking your much-needed time off to bond with your family or relax. There are also people who love their family to distraction and still find the season difficult: they might look at the table and see a beloved relative missing, they might be feeling guilty that they’re not doing well enough to financially provide excess and merriment, they might want to see both halves of a divorced couple or both sets of in-laws and hate to choose for fear of disappointing. Families are complicated, and with Christmas time being inextricably woven with family, this whole season can be difficult for people with any kind of sad or strained relationship. Really, isn’t it all of us who’ve experienced loss or fractured relationships? So why can we not accept that some people do not feel merry?

The generosity of others is one of the wonderful things about the festive season, but I have also outright lied to people who think that forcing something is the same thing as a generous offer: it is lovely how many colleagues, for example, have been willing to open their tables to me and include me in their family time, but surprising how many people grow forceful rather than accept that a quiet day to myself might be something I’d actively like. It’s always astounded me how many people have heard my reasons for choosing not to celebrate – in varying levels of detail – and then said something akin to ‘oh, but it’s Christmas!’, as if their presence as a Hindu or a Jew who chooses to celebrate a secular Christmas (and I’ve met plenty) will change my attitude in a moment, or the fact that they take this time to see old schoolfriends or neighbours will suddenly manifest that kind of community in my life. Let me be clear: I would change nothing about my relationships, and my lacking this tradition does not make me an object for pity. My friends are a rag-tag bunch I have picked up, one at a time, over the years, and there being no specific place I picked up a group is something I see as a strength. Every one of my friendships is a unique exchange of values and interests which I relate to on an individual level, and I do not lack in love. I am an only child, not close to my few cousins, and I never wished for a larger family or kinship based on closeness in age or shared genetics, so why would I, once per year, develop superficial and disingenuous relationships? This spirit of generosity forced on you like a foie gras goose applies to almost every part of the season: trying saying ‘no’ to mince pies and Quality Street after a year of hard work on your fitness, for example, and find yourself told that this is ‘not the time of year’ for a hobby you value or maybe even triggering the eating disorder that intermittently resurfaces. Tell people you don’t drink at the office Christmas party, I dare you. There is, regrettably, a ‘proper’ way to Christmas, and whilst to many the pomp and preparations for the season is most or all of the joy (and here I think of my lovely mother-in-law making sure our napkins match the colour of the ornaments on the tree, finding great pleasure in making everything ‘just so’, preparing the whole house for our return with love) if you choose to deviate from tradition you’ll find that generosity is often one step away from an aggressive assertion that this is the way things are, should be, and will be enjoyed by you. It is not a season for questioning orthodoxy.

Religion, too, is a reason for my reticence to celebrate: my Quaker ‘faith’ is motivated primarily by the Society of Friends’ anarchic structure and encouragement to interrogate your beliefs. It’s in this way I’ve come to know that, for me, the political and ethical principles I’ve always been guided by can be the foundation for faith, and it is through Quakerism that I have found a perspective which has been informed by centuries of people looking inwards and living through the trials and tribulations of an ordinary life. One Quaker teaching is that we shouldn’t ‘mark seasons,’ which is (naturally) interpreted differently by every Friend. In the puritan past this meant not celebrating festivals, and although nowadays most Quakers do celebrate they are much more likely to do small celebrations, and the meaning and method of their celebrations varies from household to household. Even though my faith may or may not have an accord with festive tidings, there are aspects of this suddenly religious time of the year that give me pause for thought.

Let’s take charitable giving, for example: throw the shutters open on Christmas morning and gift in collaboration with Oxfam and The Trussell Trust. Maybe throughout the winter you’ll pop some cans of beans or boxes of tampons in the food bank as you do your shop, but Christmas is the time for true Dickensian generosity: cards and seasonal supermarket sarnies donate to charity, people dedicate time to soup kitchens, and we keep the less fortunate in our hearts as we donate to children’s hospitals or homeless shelters. Still, though, the next step is for families across the nation to tighten their wallets and recover from the seasonal excess. We all still feel comfortable and happy in the knowledge we have spread some good in the world as part of their Christmas cheer – and they have, and nobody could deny the positive impact of a season of goodwill, but still, I worry about the unintended consequences. This, to me, is why Quakers don’t mark seasons: it’s still cold on Boxing Day, and the 27th, and through January and February too – perhaps even colder in the early months of the New Year, but the merriment in generosity has evaporated. The fortunate are playing with their new toys, or looking over newly-grown bellies falling asleep in front of the television, but the poor are still poor. The homeless are still homeless in sweltering August heat, but there is no festive impetus for us to ease their suffering then. Equally, we find the love of Christmas used as a wedge issue: whether it was during Covid, when attempts to stop the spread of deadly disease became a complicated and painful issue, or workplaces spending funds they somehow couldn’t allocate to raising your pay on decorations and tins of Celebrations in the break room, Christmas is a time when we allow ourselves to feel fortunate, even if we might perhaps be hard-done-by in other aspects. This is a double-edged sword: I love the positivity, the anarchy, and the clever ways we all feel special and connected and lucky at this time of year, but it also irks me to be sent festive messages by corporations, and politicians, and the CEO I work for who doesn’t know my name, and people I haven’t spoken to since high school who don’t know – or want to – the first thing about my current life but love to spam Facebook to alleviate loneliness. As much as Christmas is a time for satisfaction and sharing, it’s also a time to be made to feel like shit because somebody gave you a gift that cost more than theirs, or you remember life as better in the past, or you’re scrolling through your feed and looking at what clothes other people fit into or what their toddlers you’ve never met are doing or reminding you that somebody from your past is living a shiny life that was once, perhaps, mildly enriched by your presence, but not any more. Christmas is a time for nostalgia, its spiky-plush embrace and its veneer gloss of impossible perfection.

Practically, too, Christmas has never really suited me: most Christmases in my life I have worked. From my teenage years as a lifeguard through to my early 20s in retail (specifically cheesemongering – trust, I have been around my share of Christmas spirit, panic, generosity, and all emotions associated with the season) I have been a small cog in the economic machinations of the season – and always paid appallingly for it. I have never resented working Christmas, and have often volunteered to stay late Christmas Eve and come in early on Boxing Day so that those so inclined can travel to their families or stay in bed nursing their once-a-year brandy-and-champagne hangover. I always enjoyed individual interactions: whether it was shoppers getting themselves or others an expensive treat, or entertaining children dragged along by tired parents trying to do too much, or chatting to the foreign staff in a deserted university gym, ’tis the season for people to be incredibly glad you have what they want – whether that’s an empty swimming pool away from your cousins’ kids or that one port-and-stilton pot that nobody eats but Aunty Helen says it’s not Christmas without and you thought we were sold out of (spoiler: the store I worked in will never sell out of stilton pots). People were always sad for me when I said I’d rather work over Christmas, but I’m still happy to: as the youngest person in both mine and my partner’s families, as somebody who lives a relatively simple train journey from family, as somebody who likes my own time and will easily make my own celebrations (the year I ate a mont d’or and drank a bottle of champagne for breakfast was a good one) I am very much not fussed by it all. Christmas, for many years, passed me by, nothing more than a day off work. In truth, all those years I was neutral to the festivities, and it was only the intensity of others’ intrusion into my personal feelings and conduct that I truly hated.

The truly difficult thing about Christmas is that it’s impossible to avoid: if there is a good reason for you to not partake in the festivities you can’t listen to the radio, watch TV, go out, or talk to people from roughly mid-November until January. Even celebrants joke about ‘Whamageddon!’ (the seasonal inability to avoid George Michael), so consider how it feels when every note sung pierces your heart with the anger or sorrow of unresolved trauma or guilt. The real problem with Christmas isn’t the reasonable issues a person might have – it’s the unreasonable domination of the festival for not simply a day or a week, but a full month or more, taking over life and livelihood alike, haunting and even attacking those of us who may wish to quietly bow out and leave others to be happy. This season of peace and love knows none. It has no empathy, demands attention and tribute, is never satisfied. The true pain of Christmas is that it must be for you how it is for everyone, and society and individuals both are offended if we try to choose otherwise, even a little bit.

What brought me to Christmas?

I have spent several Christmases with my friends (I’d especially like to shout out Kim, who’s hosted me for multiple years and treated me as if I belong in her home, who I’ve created many wonderful seasonal memories with), but finding a family who appreciate privacy and who treasure my presence has been transformative. I want to take the seasonal excuse to buy these people things that they would never get themselves, either because they love the sentiment of it being a gift or because it’s a valuable object or because it’s something they wouldn’t think of. I love gifting, and I start thinking about Christmas pressies in late August as soon as all my major birthdays are out of the way. My own family hate Christmas and also spending time with one another, and going back to a city that was my home but which held none of the sentiments or conveniences of a hometown always felt… heavy, in a way that going to Wales with my partner doesn’t. I value the unfussiness of my own family, their self-sufficency and desire to define themselves, but whilst those traits have given me a life I value they are not conducive to a traditional Christmas. In contrast, my mother-in-law is a fusser and my father-in-law is a provider and between them they create an atmosphere of appropriately high spirits. With my found family I want to participate, not argue about whether we can watch the Dr Who special.

Beyond that, I have always loved seasonal food: dark, hearty cabbage; cranberries on everything; nuts of all kinds, dried fruit, bombay mix; endless gravy. As for drinks – if it stays on the counter too long, I’ll mull it: wine, yes, but cranberry and orange juices, coffee, eggnog. I want it warm and spiced. People love to take Celebrations to work, and I can reciprocate with my favourite gingerbreads. I love to be generous, both with people I know and with strangers. I love the excuse, in a post-Covid world, to meet my colleagues, I love to connect with people whose schedule has mismatched with mine all year through cards and casual drinks. I love the excuse to dress up, to pop on a little red lip or slip into something sparkly, or even wear cutesy things that are only appropriate at this time of year: novelty jumpers or earrings – after all, kitsch is a key part of nostalgia. I like to see people make and effort, whether it’s with their surroundings or their appearance or to be nice, and I love to see the bubble of joy that brings. None of these are unique to Christmas, of course, and I relish coming across novelty at halloween, summer work barbeques, fresh, seasonal flavours as spring blooms, but the spirit of Christmas is pervasive, and its main work is to encourage cheer.

And now?

I remain somewhat disappointed in myself for folding to social pressure, and my ethical grounds for finding the festival distasteful have not left me; I am now, in fact, a ‘have’ rather than a ‘have not’ whose celebration, massive in scale, means incredible excess and wastage. My mother-in-law would die if we ate less than 5000 calories on Christmas Day, if we didn’t have multiple meats and desserts and choices of sauces – but I love her, and I love how happy it makes her, and I do my part to feed the family with the leftovers. I take care to donate to charity and appreciate the efforts people make all year round to mitigate some of my worries that Christmas, the great lolloping behemoth, takes on such a burden that we have left what we value in it behind by December 27th.

Christmas is a time I’m reminded of my ability to say ‘yes’ and also ‘no’. It’s a time I value my friends and family, taking time to be with them or buy them considered presents, lavishing the time and money they deserve all year round at the designated time and – especially post-pandemic – take the opportunity to write letters to or have drinks with my busy, international circle – people I don’t see enough. I have learned, through my years of trying to passively get through the winter months, to no avail, to make my own good times; to question why we do things with the aim of choosing what I do and why; that I need never explain myself – that, in fact, it often makes life harder to expect people to understand instead of asserting your wishes as a done deal.

You are allowed to be worried about leaving your family to go to work, or needing the income from extra shifts around the season, or if you’re the only one of your siblings who’ll drive to your mum, or if your parents will be upset if you choose to spend it with your friends – these concerned thoughts you feel you’re dwelling on are how you will make the decision that is best for you. If you fret about them you will make it worse for yourself, but if worries go unacknowledged then you live an unexamined life, and what is that worth?

Ultimately my message is: make your own happiness in this life. You are allowed to be touched by the generosity of your coworkers inviting you to join their celebration and still – firmly, politely – prefer to be alone. You are allowed to look upon advent calendars and crackers and three-bird roasts and see excessive, disposable consumerism. You are allowed to make your own traditions with the people you want to spend your holidays with or blend and fold experiences into one another until you’re simply sharing what you love with your loved ones. You are allowed to think all of these things and still find joy in brussels sprouts.

On This Topic:

• Other Quakers also find Christmas a time for reflection, and they may come to other conclusions than mine.
• I am not the only person who overanalyses holiday traditions with socio-political commentary.
• If you too will mull anything, I strongly recommend the German Kinderpunsch, aka alcohol-free mulled wine

To-Do:

• Find recylable wrapping tape
• Pack for Salzburg
• This year I’m not buying books for people who don’t want them, which is actually pretty much everyone. Unfortunately books are the only thing I know, so I’m sorry if your non-book gift is a bit crap – I’m trying.

Today’s Culture:

• Borrowing bound magazines from the library as my holiday reading. This holiday season I will be catching up on back issues of The New Yorker, P N Review and The New York Review of Books.
• German food is the most Christmassy. I don’t make the rules.
• Finding (or creating) a jazz or classical playlist that will keep everyone happy at the table on The Big Day… it’s quite an undertaking.