"Christmas After Everything"

I used to love Christmas. The night before, my family would have a big Christmas party, complete with music, way too many gifts for all the kids, delicious food, and games. Then, we’d hear Santa was near and beg to race home and get to sleep. 

The next morning, I would wake my mom up early, and she would have new, cute Christmas pajamas for me and a bunch of presents under the tree. 

Afterwards, we’d go to my aunt’s house for breakfast: French toast casserole, scrambled eggs, and bacon. I’d bring a box of Elf on the Shelf cereal to scare my favorite cousin, who was terrified of the Elf on the Shelf. Then, I’d spend the rest of the day at my grandma’s with my dad and siblings for presents and dinner. I’d wear my new pajamas while they were all dressed up.

Christmas used to be fun and simple. I could get into the spirit of the holiday as soon as I heard the first jingle on the radio. 

It all changed in 2021 when my mom and I spent Christmas in our apartment with COVID. My aunt brought us food, stood in our kitchen, and complained about how ungrateful her sons were. 

I remember that Christmas as the time I couldn’t eat mayonnaise or ketchup on my food due to my strange COVID tastebuds, and the week I binge-watched every episode of the HBO Original Series Sex and the City, the sequel movies that followed, and the 2021 reboot. 

My mom was gone less than two weeks later, a few days after the New Year. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. One minute, we were watching the ball drop on television. Next, I was at my aunt’s house at two o’clock in the morning on Skype, staring at my mom on a ventilator in a hospital bed. 

I was barely eighteen in the throes of the worst year of my life, feeling numb, broken, and chronically conflicted. Towards the end of 2022, Christmas had become a nightmare. I couldn’t stand in Walmart and look at the Christmas displays and listen to the holiday music. The cheerfulness made me sick. 

My mom had made Christmas special, and I didn’t want to celebrate without her. That first Christmas after she passed in 2022, I couldn’t bear to be in New Jersey. I couldn’t bear to do a lot of things without her. 

I hopped a plane to Myrtle Beach and stayed with a family friend and her son. She had lost her own husband a few years earlier and knew what I was going through better than most. It was the most non-traditional Christmas I had ever had, complete with my sister throwing an unwrapped gift at me before I left and a visit from a psychic medium, but it was what I desperately needed at the time.

I learned quickly that Christmas will never be what it used to be. I’ll never be able to feel the Christmas spirit as I once did, through innocent childhood magic and the greatest love I had ever known. Every Christmas since, I haven’t been able to enjoy decorating a tree or the magic of Christmas cookies; My heart just wasn’t in it. 

Maybe I put off making a wish list or coming to terms with the approaching holiday until the middle of December, secretly judging people who start their Christmas plans on the first of November. 

But, every year, I get closer and closer to figuring out where I’m comfortable, where I can find a happy medium between hopping a plane to South Carolina to get away from my life and embracing the holiday traditions with childlike wonder. 

I don’t know what this year will bring. As I write this, it’s December second, and Christmas still feels miles away. However, I’m okay, and that's the best word for it– no subtext or nuance. Christmas and I now can successfully coexist, even if everyone else around me is more spirited in these upcoming weeks.