I love the idea of Christmas; the coming together with family that I love deeply. But alongside the magic of Christmas, there’s also the overwhelm and exhaustion that comes along with it. It can be so taxing both mentally and physically to get through the holiday season.

Every year I brace myself for the travel, the sleeping in different beds, sitting too long and not moving enough.

The large groups add another layer as I know that I am best one-on-one when I can relaxed and fully be myself. When I’m around a lot of people at an event, I sometimes feel like a tagalong for it – I’m there, but always slightly out of sync. The conversations move father than I can keep up with and I’m quietly counting down the moments until my body and brain tap out and I have to leave.

But Christmas doesn’t really lend itself to one-on-one gatherings as the whole point is to gether everyone together. So I show up, even when I know it will cost me later.

And then there’s the emotional weight of Christmas which feels heavier each year.

For a long time, I dreamt of having my own family. A partner with kids creating new traditions and a loving home. Life didn’t unfold that way for me and Christmas is a reminder of that for me.

Now, my friends and siblings have their own families. Their Christmases are evolving in beautiful, meaningful ways with their own new traditions and rituals. I’m genuinely so happy for them and I see the effort they go to to include me in what they can – to remind me that I matter.

But even with all that effort and love, loneliness still creeps in.

There’s something quietly painful about standing on the edges of other people’s family units, no matter how welcome you are. I find myself watching their connections, their sense of “this is us,” and feeling a deep sadness I don’t always know what to do with. I feel jealous of their closeness and the way they belong to something that feels permanent and anchored.

That jealousy brings guilt too because comparison feels ugly. This deep love of my family is real and beautiful, yet the ache remains that I do not have my own family unit. Add that to the physical pain, exhaustion and overwhelm, Christmas becomes the season of endurance. It’s a constant tug-of-war: loving something and suffering through it at the same time.

I wish more people understood that you can appreciate something and still find it hard and that gratitude doesn’t erase pain. For me. showing up at Christmas isn’t about having a smile and bubbly energy, it’s about managing and navigating my limits, both physical and emotional.

Maybe naming the sadness isn’t selfish but honest, a way of making space for compassion for ourselves and others whose Christmases don’t quite match the picture on the card.

I’m still learning that love, grief, and self-care can exist together, even when it’s messy.

What might it look like to let that be true?