I have historically not been a huge fan of Christmas.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the season of Advent; the movement to intentionally lean into the ache of anticipation. I love watching my kids open presents and sparkle the room with their excitement. I love the glow of a lit tree in a quiet living room after everyone is asleep.
But I get tired.
I get tired of going to holiday parties because I have to fight anxiety the whole time. I get tired of managing a chronic illness and mental health amidst all the extra events. I get tired of traveling. I get tired of disappointing people when we don’t go to the parties or travel. I get tired of spending money. I get tired and just want the year to be over.
In Christmases past at the Rodgers household, I insisted on a real tree. Because Christmas so easily overwhelms me, I can usually only do the bare minimum. But I try to make that minimum an experience.
We pick out cute outfits and head to the Christmas tree farm. Once we bundle up in thick coats that hide our cute outfits we tromp through the muddy grass to claim our tree. The kids run through the green rows, shivering in the shade of evergreens. Jonathan and I make pitches to each other about which tree we think should come home with us. Sometimes it snows.
Like I said, it’s always been an experience.
And in Christmases past, I’ve found a lot of pride in our little ‘real tree expedition tradition’ because it was the one holiday thing I felt like I did right for my kids.
But then this year happened and I didn’t want to do it anymore. I couldn’t tell you why I changed my mind. I just did.
Most likely, it’s a combination of intense things I limped walked through this past year.
Simply put: I’m giving myself permission to do Christmas how our family needs to this year. Not how I think I have to based on “what everyone does” or because “it’s tradition!”.
Sometimes we have to decide when traditions are beautiful anchors and when they’re dead weights we need to let go of.