Like many people, I cherish my childhood memories of seasonal family outings: rolling onto the fields of our local pick-your-own farm in summer, visiting apple orchards in the fall, and hunting for Christmas trees in winter. Each year, without fail, we had our disagreements over exactly how many berries were necessary for the ideal pie or whose turn it was to manage the oversized apple-picking pole. These squabbles were part of the experience. Living at home meant the drives were short, the baking relaxed, and the sitting around lingered longer. Content in more ways than one, I would often drift off in my own bed after any of these seasonal adventures, eager to count down the days until we could do it all over again the following year.
So, it’s no surprise that when I relocated to New York for college, I felt an unquenchable desire to experience everything the city had to offer (feel free to roll your eyes). Plays, concerts, dining options — my bucket list expanded rapidly. To add to the challenge, I quickly realized I needed a separate *Christmas* bucket list for the holiday season.
Before long, my list rivaled Santa Claus’s notorious naughty and nice log. My must-do holiday activities included ice skating, watching the Rockettes, attending a performance of The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center (thanks to student discounts), exploring winter villages, and admiring the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center— all the essentials.
Yet, alongside these major events were a few things I felt compelled to include: catching a jazz band performing holiday classics, joining the throngs to view Macy’s windows, and appreciating Christmas trees beyond the one in Rockefeller Center. If I was going to experience Christmas in New York, I had to fully immerse myself.
Nearly two decades later, looking back fills me with amazement. I am struck not only by the sheer amount of energy I had but also by how determined I was to participate in all these activities — even those I didn’t particularly care for — to make sure my Christmas spirit was overflowing.
Today, still residing in the city but now with my own family, coordinating any seasonal outing demands far more effort. Thanks to kids, of course. Plus, I live in a different state from my parents and lack a car. Trying to recapture that special magic from the whirlwind seasons of my past requires renting a vehicle, making the trip, and racing to beat the traffic. It feels daunting.
Four years ago, after the pandemic and postpartum recovery, I found myself lacking the energy to make the journey for our family apple-picking day in the fall. At that moment, it felt devastating: Was my cherished tradition now permanently tainted, like that ninth apple that had gone bad because I delayed eating it?
No, it simply meant that things had changed.
This year marked our second missed trip. The season was hectic. Not only were there school-related commitments, but my husband and I also had a destination wedding to look forward to. While we were away, my parents took my daughter apple picking. I wonder if they chose not to inform me beforehand to avoid hurting my feelings. At first, I was genuinely upset. Then I recognized that since I couldn’t make it happen for her, I was grateful that they could.
Lately, my bucket list (particularly for Christmas) has shrunk considerably. Now, it’s just one or two items long. Pictures with Santa? Count me in. Local tree lighting? Sure, I might see you there. Otherwise, we’re staying home — a stark contrast to my previous winters spent trying to fit every conceivable holiday activity into just a few months.
I’ve come to realize that cramming fun into every possible moment detracts from that essential ~savor the season~ feeling. I believe it’s vital for my young daughter to see me truly enjoying the holidays alongside her. With all the adult responsibilities the season brings, all I want for Christmas is a pair of silly pompom socks and a cozy spot to sit. Because in those quieter moments lies its own kind of holiday magic: introducing your child to Home Alone, reminiscing over cherished ornament souvenirs, and savoring Reese’s shaped like Christmas trees.
So here’s a little permission slip I’m extending to myself — and to you: It’s perfectly fine not to engage in every single holiday activity. Make time for one or two cherished favorites; if you try to fit everything in, there might not be much room left for joy. I want to create as much space for joy as possible — not just for happiness, but also for those store-bought Christmas cookies.
Image Source: Maria Sbytova / Shutterstock
