As the festive season sneaks up on us—like a poorly planned office Secret Santa—I find myself reflecting on the many layers of emotions this time of year stirs up. For some, it’s a sparkly beacon of joy and connection; for others, it’s more like a tangled string of Christmas lights: triggering, messy, and liable to make you mutter things unfit for polite company. Let’s face it, Christmas has a way of amplifying everything—the good, the bad, and the utterly absurd.
Allow me to share a Christmas memory of my own, one that, looking back, is almost comedic in its bleakness but felt tragically serious at the time. One year, my mum bought me a gift—a singular, unassuming gift—that I hunted high and low for in the weeks leading up to Christmas. When I finally found it, my heart plummeted: it was a jigsaw puzzle. Not just any puzzle, mind you, but one featuring an astronaut on the box. No cheerful cartoon characters, no vibrant colours, just a lonely astronaut staring into the void of space. It was, frankly, as exciting as cold custard.
I’d been thoroughly brainwashed by weeks of TV adverts featuring kids in their warm, carpeted homes ecstatically unwrapping mountains of toys. Meanwhile, there I was in our freezing house, with its black-and-white TV and linoleum floor (if you’re too young to know what linoleum is, consider yourself lucky—and Google it). The jigsaw puzzle felt like the universe’s way of saying, “Lower your expectations.”
That same year, I’d painstakingly saved pennies to buy presents for my siblings. I remember knocking on my brother’s door, holding out my scruffy little gift like some Dickensian urchin. He snatched it, muttered something unintelligible, and slammed the door in my face. Merry Christmas to me!!
Moments like these shaped my early view of Christmas as an elaborate exercise in disappointment, wrapped up in tinsel and tied with a bow. And don’t even get me started on the whole “Santa Claus was hijacked by a certain fizzy drinks company in the 1930s” thing—a fact that still fuels my righteous indignation to this day. (Go on, Google that too.)
Over the years, I’ve learned to hijack Christmas right back. Like so many things in life, it’s about taking the bits that resonate and leaving the rest. For me, it’s become a time of pause—a chance to catch my breath as the year wheezes to a close. It’s a moment to reflect on the battles fought, the small victories won, and the things that, against all odds, have endured. Whether it’s gathering with family, sharing a laugh with friends, or simply curling up with a beloved pet, I’ve found my own way to make it meaningful.
For many of us, this season isn’t an easy one. It can magnify feelings of loneliness or reignite old wounds. But whatever this time of year means to you, I want you to know it’s perfectly okay to make it yours. Maybe it’s a time for quiet reflection, a chance to let go of what no longer serves you. Maybe it’s about finding small moments of joy—a decent mince pie, the wag of a dog’s tail, or the smug satisfaction of successfully dodging a particularly awful Christmas party.
And isn’t that the true magic of this time of year? Not the tinsel or the TV specials, but the chance—however fleeting—to reclaim something for yourself. To create a moment that feels authentic, even if it’s just a stolen hour with a good book, a long walk in the crisp winter air, or the simple pleasure of ignoring your phone for once. It’s about finding those fragments of peace and weaving them into something uniquely yours.
My wish for you this Christmas is simple yet expansive: I hope you find peace, joy, and hope in whatever form they take. May you feel the warmth of love—whether from others or from within yourself. May you know the quiet triumph of resilience, the lightness of a shared laugh, and the spark of hope that whispers of brighter days ahead. And if all else fails, remember: there’s always the Boxing Day sales and the promise of a fresh start in January.
So here’s to you—to your courage, your humour, and your remarkable ability to keep going, no matter what life has thrown your way. Be kind to yourself, because you’ve come so far and done so well with what you have.
With heartfelt wishes (and a slightly irreverent nod to the season),
Jimi
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