PeonyMagazine

  During my childhood, Christmas arrived fully formed. It showed up bright and loud and certain, like something guaranteed. I woke up in it. I didn’t wonder who paid for what, who planned the day, or how tired anyone might be. I didn’t notice  the quiet work happening before dawn  or the careful decisions made weeks ahead of time. Christmas simply happened to me. My only responsibility was to feel excited. That is the privilege of being young: joy without context. You receive without knowing what it costs. You believe magic exists because someone else is working very hard to make sure you never have to question it. As an adult,  Christmas  feels different, not colder, not worse, just heavier. The warmth is still there, but it shares space with lists and numbers and timing. There are budgets to think about, calendars to juggle, kitchens to manage, and expectations to meet. You start measuring the season not just by what you feel, but by what you’re carrying. The ...