How I Learned the Joy of Doing Less for Christmas

"When I was growing up, Christmas in our family was a huge deal. Before hitting holiday sales (with the precision that Black Friday in the '90s required), my mom would break out the beloved box of Christmas movies for us to binge-watch. The weeks that followed were filled with festive crafts and endless baking, set to the soundtrack of carols sung by Amy Grant, Reba McEntire, and Celine Dion. The memories instilled in me an excessive love for the season."

"As a parent, I wanted my kids' holidays to be just as magical. But as more traditions piled on, it started to feel a lot less merry. I found myself wondering which of us cherished the long line for photos with Santa, who terrified my eldest daughter (whom I'd wrangled into a dress she hated). I gleefully filled our calendar with events, only to feel the burnout later."

"And then, inspired by rom-coms, we decided to chop our own tree. Except we miscalculated the excursion, and after a day with a tired kid, hangry parents, and a nearly four-hour car ride, dozens of baby spiders descended from their nests into our home. I had wistfully recalled how much I loved getting our tree each year as a kid. Then it hit me: Our tree had always come from a gas-station parking lot across from the mall."

Childhood Christmases combined movie binges, crafts, baking, and carols to create deep nostalgia for the season. Attempts to replicate every tradition for the next generation led to an overfilled calendar and holiday burnout. A difficult tree-chopping outing, long travel, a tired child, hangry parents, and an infestation of baby spiders exposed the mismatch between effort and feeling. The emotional magic stemmed from shared warmth and chosen rituals rather than exhaustive tasks. Simplification followed: drop daunting obligations like holiday cards, choose convenient tree options, keep beloved activities, and abandon traditions that no longer bring joy.

Read at Washingtonian - The website that Washington lives by.