(Originally written December 2025)
For years I thought I didn’t like Christmas. Or the holidays.
Nay.
I gloried and reveled in not liking Christmas and the holidays.
As people hustled and bustled I stayed still and JUDGED. I judged so hard.
Sheeple! Consumerist robots! Brainwashed peons of society creating undue stress whilst filling the coffers of predatory corporations!
Ornaments and decorations? Litter and rubbish from the tiny chemical-stained fingers of sweatshop child slaves.
Glitter? Toxic microplastic poisoning ecosystems and choking the birdies and the fishies and the oysters.
Christmas trees? Good god, these trees have been growing for 5-10+ years and we kill them for… AESTHETICS? And because they SMELL GOOD? What is this world? Who are we?
Christmas gifts? Capitalism on crack. Obliterating contentment with materialism and greed.
Santa Claus? Lies. LIES TO CHILDREN. An annual, elaborate, massive deception that is supposed to somehow NOT erode children’s trust in their parents. Not to mention the messages of surveillance culture, social class disparity, and simplistic morality, FUCK YOU SANTA CLAUS. And an equal FUCK YOU to Elf on the Shelf, Santa’s little passive-aggressive, mess-making, naughty little snitch.
I’m getting too worked up. I need to go drink some water.
Okay, I’m back. I can tell I am calmer because my face is not hot.
Let us continue on.
I could “Bah! Humbug!” from the onset of October all the way to January, casting aspersions from my I-don’t-fall-for-this-holiday-shit-so-I’m-better-than-you throne.
But why, WHY? Some of you may be saying, “what terrible things happened to you, Angela?”
I have some theories.
THEORY 1: When I had just turned 1 (my age is key to the nonchalance with which I present this information) my 5-year-old sister, Lisa, had a cold on Christmas, went to the hospital a day or two after Christmas, and died on New Year’s Eve. So maybe the holidays remind my family of the worst, most horrible thing that ever happened to them, and that is why I don’t like the holidays.
This might seem like the obvious answer.
However, I LOVED Christmas growing up. Though I did have to strong-arm it a bit. We had the tree and festive garlands and mountain of presents, but were missing some key elements. Mostly Santa and everything related to Santa. So when I was 9 I decided I should definitely have a stocking, and someone should definitely fill it. I selected a jumbo red stocking with a raccoon head (raccoons are exotic to people born and raised in Hawai‘i), hung it on the patio door handle, charged everyone with the task of filling it, then squeezed it daily to see if the adults were following instructions. They were. It was great. Its contents included an entire jumbo cylinder of banana Runts. There were other things, but the Runts really stole the show.
And if you read my Christmas Party post, you know I grew up with grand celebrations. So it’s not like Lisa’s passing canceled future Christmas cheer.
Though I do vaguely recall a year where my mom and I opened one present on Christmas Eve then ended up opening ALL of the presents, which were stacked on our grand piano. So maybe at that point we did not have a tree anymore? Why did we put the presents on the piano and not… anywhere else? And where was my dad? Where was my oldest brother? Were we already descending into financial crisis? I have no idea.
THEORY 2: The cult-esque church I was raised in both condoned and condemned Christmas, making the holidays a confusing time full of magic, delight, shame, and envy.
Magic because of the star and the wise men and the frankincense and the baby that fell out of a virgin’s vagina onto hay and horse shit. Delight because of 10 different angel costumes with wings and pipe cleaner halos, Christmas Eve performances, golden candles, giant red ribbons on the pews, and freshly baked pecan pie.
Shame and envy because Santa Claus is EVIL, Christmas songs about Santa are EVIL, Christmas decorations that have anything to do with Santa and elves are EVIL, mistletoe is pure EVIL, and anyone failing to center their celebration around the birth of Christ our Redeemer is EVIL and bound for hell, and if you like any of this stuff you are probably EVIL, also bound for hell, and need to repent.
You know. Enjoy, BUT DON’T GET CARRIED AWAY INTO SIN. Celebrate Christmas AS LONG AS YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT GOD AND JESUS AND THE HOLY SPIRIT WHO ARE THREE DISPARATE THINGS BUT ALSO ONE THING. Sing carols UNLESS THEY ARE ABOUT SANTA CLAUS OR SEXY.
It has just occurred to me that I might be so angry about Santa Claus because I was not allowed to have a Santa Claus. Hm.
THEORY 3: I spent years with men who sucked the joy out of Christmas. One was an atheist. One sucked the joy out of everything all year, so Christmas was just another casualty. And one felt deep shame about enjoying Christmas, which was not fun.
THEORY 4: After my divorce the kids would spend Christmas at their dad’s, Aileen typically went home to Seattle, and I would be alone. Alone on Christmas Eve. Alone on Christmas morning. The kids would usually reappear for Christmas evening then have to leave again.
It sucked. It sucked to not celebrate with them, but it way more sucked because I’d have to spend the whole time worried about whether the children were watched (probably not) or fed well (probably not) or taking showers and brushing their teeth (super probably not). I mean, Eden broke her collarbone two Christmases ago, and when I got the text from Rain that said “TAKING EDEN TO ER BUT YOU CAN’T COME,” I was like “The ER fucking AGAIN?!!” Because that’s the kind of shit that happened when they were away.
The heat building in my chest suggests this theory might be the biggest culprit. Or maybe it was just the final straw, the last nail in the Christmas coffin, enough heartbreak to bring my protectors running, and those protectors decided the best plan of action to avoid further pain and disappointment would be to vehemently dislike Christmas.
Holidays can’t hurt you if you don’t care about them, right? Christmas can’t be a whopping disappointment if you expect it to suck, correct? I won’t be lonely on Christmas if I decide I’d RATHER be alone, yes? Plus… That makes me special. Even superior. Wins all around.
But this year had surprises in store.
Due to what I call “The Great Miracle of 2025,” it became clear the kids would be staying home for the holidays. The entire time.
And since they were going to be home, Aileen decided to stay home as well.
So everyone was going home for the first time in nine years.
And was I, upon realizing this, absolutely thrilled? No. I was not.
I was VERY pleased the kids were not going anywhere and would be both happy and safe. I was pleased Aileen was not going to have to spend ten days eating canned beans and shivering. But my protectors and I were very wary about losing my alone time and anti-holiday identity.
After all, being alone for two weeks is how I entered my first poetry slam. And the holidays are when I do things like re-caulk the tub, make ambitious spreadsheets of schedules I won’t keep, eat sausages and not have to share, binge Netflix, and clean my desk. While, of course, judging everyone shallow enough to celebrate and even enjoy the festivities.
But, you know, what am I if not easygoing and even-tempered?
That’s funny because I am neither of those things.
I do TRY to be flexible and accept life as it rolls in. Since everyone was going to be home for the first time ever, I thought maybe I’d put a little more effort into the holiday-ing. And I did. With just a few helpings of existential crisis.
I decided to throw my first holiday party and got excited about it. Then spent the whole month leading up to it wondering if it was a colossal waste of time and money, and if it was just a weak attempt to hurtle 35 years back to when my family was rich and important and we had a swimming pool. Fun and not fun.
I bought a stocking for Aileen and myself. Rain wanted Aileen and I to each have a stocking, to which I replied “As the person who will be putting things into the stockings I see no point in me having one to myself” and we compromised on one joint mom stocking. So three stockings turned into four stockings and I had to make new holes in the wall for the sake of equal spacing.
I also started shopping for Christmas gifts hella early. Not really on purpose, but once I knew everyone was going to be home I started to keep my eye out, and my eye was very good at finding things.
I could not tell whether this made me happy or upset. I was excited to acquire items I knew the kids and Aileen would love, but upset about being excited about the acquisitions, and upset about acquiring items in general. I’d look at the growing pile of shoes and jewelry and clothes and books and massage tools in the corner of my bedroom and feel… compromised? Like I was becoming a Christmas normie, a regular brainwashed robot falling prey to commercialized nonsense. Like I was being a damned fool allowing things to build up in me like anticipation and expectations.
Expectations. For this holiday that has, so many times in the past, failed me.
But guess what, people. I was wrong. I was SO wrong.
I FUCKING LOOOOOOOVE CHRISTMAS. Love it. LOVE. it. Three sizes? I think my heart grew ten sizes.
I love putting out our untraditional Christmas tree while listening to Spotify’s Christmas Classics playlist. I love all of our handmade, janky ornaments, including a sparkling clothespin angel I made 40 years ago and my ridiculous mullet-in-a-tree photo ornament that the kids think is sooooo funny.
I love looking at whimsical Christmas ornaments, and discovered I particularly like Anthropologie’s ornaments, which I did not know as I never stepped foot in there before cause bougie. I did not buy any, but I touched A LOT of them.
I love wrapping gifts. I love sneaking gifts under the tree all through December and watching the teenagers light up when they realize the pile has grown.
I love that everywhere smells like gingerbread and cinnamon and I get to hear All I Want for Christmas Is You 98 times. I love going down to City Hall with the kids to see the trees and the wreaths and the giant Shaka Santa and Tūtū Mele that have been displayed since I was 8 years old.
I love playing Boggle with the kids (Elijah beat me for the first time) and watching Dynamite Kiss and Culinary Class Wars while eating pasta and pumpkin pie. I love speed walking through Waikiki for an impromptu 9pm adventure to the Cheesecake Factory, which was exotic because none of the kids had been there before. I love Fiji curry and chili chicken Christmas dinner with my family, which is ten times more fun when I don’t have to worry about the kids’ past and future suffering.
I love opening our Christmas gifts at the very end of the night, so late that everyone else in the nation considers Christmas done. I had told Aileen and the kids no gifts, because I thought I didn’t like receiving gifts, but 2 days before Christmas I said Rain and Elijah could buy me something small from Ross if they could do it in 30m. What they found was hilarious. Eden, on the other hand, spent DAYS crafting me homemade gifts, which were beautiful and wonderful and also hilarious because she had no glue and also used a paper towel roll as a base.
And I love waking up on Christmas morning with Aileen and the kids in the house, going to bed on Christmas night with Aileen and the kids in the house, and knowing the people I love most are safe and sound and near.
This was the best Christmas EVER, by far. And I am already excited for next year.
Sometimes healing looks like finally letting go. Sometimes healing looks like forgiveness and a fresh start. Sometimes healing looks like boundaries and healthy habits.
And sometimes healing looks like getting off a high horse, realizing Christmas does NOT suck, and that, in fact, it may actually be the most wonderful time of the year.
Love,
Angela
Like what you see?
Subscribe to my email list
and I'll let you know when I publish something new.
Want to support my work?
Buy me a cup of coffee
so I can keep creating all this weirdness.
