the disappearing magic of the holidays as you get older

and why it’s okay if it doesn’t feel the same

It’s the holidays, but it doesn’t feel like it did when I was a kid.

I’m back in my childhood bedroom, lying beneath the canopy and drapes, the pink frilly bedsheets that I begged my mum for when I was ten. Everything is smaller than I remember, but still exactly where I left it - like time paused even if I didn’t.

This was the room where I used to sit on Christmas Eve, counting down the minutes to midnight.

3, 2, 1… Merry Christmas, I’d whisper to myself, before burrowing down in my sheets and drifting off to sleep.

I was never the kid who ran down the stairs at midnight, tearing into presents or hoping to catch Santa in the act. The magic, for me, lived in the waiting on Christmas Eve. In the anticipation of what the next day would bring - gifts and food and noise and togetherness.

Back then, time used to stretch. A never ending, vast landscape of seconds and minutes and hours. The days before Christmas felt heavy with promise.

I counted sleeps. I woke up early without trying. I ate all the foods my mum would never usually buy at any other time of year. The world felt soft, bright, slow, like it was holding its breath with me.

But this year, I swear, without realising when it happened, I blinked and it was mid-December. And I was still answering emails. Still thinking about deadlines. Still mentally calculating how many days I could take off without burning through all my leave.

This bedroom brings about an onslaught of new feelings now.

The holidays come with a quiet undercurrent of guilt. Guilt that I’m not working through that invisible backlog of projects - the life admin list and the unfinished goals and the ‘I’ll get to it when things slow down’ tasks that have been piling up all year.

Rest starts to feel like procrastination in disguise, even if it’s much needed. Like somehow taking time off is wasted if I’m not optimising or transforming or ticking some invisible box (insert trending hustle culture lingo here).

I started to dread all the gifts I had to buy and the Secret Santas I had to organise and the potlucks I had to make. The trips I wanted to take and the hosting I promised I’d do. There’s the pressure to keep up appearances, be generous, participate fully, see everyone, say yes, even when you feel like you’re being pulled in too many directions.

To be always on. Post about it. Document the joy. The aesthetic moments.

The pressure to ‘do the holidays right’ drowns out the actual rest and relaxation part. And slowly, December began to lose its magic and feel like one big to-do list I needed to tick off.

And then, almost imperceptibly, Christmas day arrived. Somewhere between dessert and the fourth glass of wine, the questions began:

So… are you seeing anyone?
When are you getting married?
What about kids?
What’s next for you?

And it doesn’t matter what answer you give, because there’s always the next milestone, isn’t there? And no matter how much self assurance you’ve built this year, how much you’ve affirmed that you’re on your own path and timeline, all that crumbles when you’re sat at that table.

And you know it comes from a place of care, but you can’t help but feel exhausted, knowing you’re constantly being assessed against expectations you didn’t agree to.

There’s a strange dissonance to it. You yearn for that feeling you had as a child, that feeling you so vividly remember, but your reality is completely different.

Now, it’s budgeting instead of wishing. Checking calendars instead of counting sleeps. Time is measured in leave balances, not excitement.

Yet… despite all this, I still love the holidays.

I love the lights and the music and the food, the permission to slow down a little (even if those feelings of guilt still persist sometimes).

The magic isn’t gone, it’s just changed shape. Quiet whispers instead of excited shouts.

It lives in the everyday. The smell of homemade cookies drifting from the kitchen. Movie marathons on the couch. Empty trains because everyone’s gone home for the holidays. Conversations that stretch late into the night. Everyone under the same roof again, even if only for a brief moment.

And if the holidays feel heavier than they used to, that’s okay too. I think part of growing up is grieving what once was, but another part is learning how to intentionally create meaning. To stop chasing the version of the holidays you remember, and start noticing the one right in front of you.

It might never again feel like it did when you were ten - and that’s okay.