With Christmas just days away, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Every year around this time, people start stressing, overspending, and convincing themselves that money buys happiness. Some will say, “Well, it depends. If I just had $1,000, I could pay off my car, fix my credit, and everything would finally be perfect.” But does anyone ever think about after?
Sure, you might save and grind your way to that extra $1,000, pay off the car, feel the temporary relief… and then what? More often than not, something else replaces that stress. Another bill, another worry, another reason to feel anxious. Honestly, at this point it feels like anxiety and depression are practically part of the American adulthood starter pack. We’re either anxious about what hasn’t happened yet, or depressed about what already has.
You’ll get all the gifts. Somebody’s side piece might get a car, somebody’s wife might get a puppy. And then December 26th hits—and just like that, everyone snaps back to their regularly scheduled program of stress and overwhelm. That’s why I think holidays should actually mean something again. We get these so-called “freebie” days where kids are on break and adults get time off work, but for what? To shop? To stress? To pretend everything is perfect for 48 hours?
Why do people spend money they don’t have for a couple hours of escape at the in-laws’ house? Why do we treat the holidays like a conveyor belt that never truly stops? We detach from reality just long enough to binge on materialism—cars, clothes, new iPhones, things that won’t even matter in a few months.
And then there’s burnout. Some people work all year to afford that purebred Yorkie for their wife or to buy Timmy his first car. But after the wrapping paper settles, they go right back to that same dead-end job or empty bank account. So what exactly are we celebrating?
Christmas stress? Holiday burnout?
I think about a friend of mine who works the same job for two years, got a raise, but lost a promotion for being sick. She calls me a fool for leaving the same company, getting evicted, and living in my car for four months. She has no kids, loves designer everything, and lives comfortably at her parents’ house on their insurance.
So ask me—who’s having the better Christmas this year?
Me.
Because I’m not wasting my money or energy on things that break. I’d rather have a small apartment full of love and memories than a big room full of things that don’t matter. As I get ready to enter my 30s next month, I feel like I’m aging backwards—not immaturely, but finally waking up to the potential I ignored throughout my 20s.
But in the spirit of honesty, real life hit me hard recently. Type 1 diabetes runs in my family, and last week the scale flashed 168 at me. I had an internal panic attack. The wild part? I just quit smoking—thinking maybe cigarettes were the thing “keeping me skinny” because of how they make my stomach do gymnastics. But really, my weight gain is from life coming to a complete stop these past months—new baby, losing my car, feeling stuck. What I thought was just mental depression has become physical.
And instead of waiting until the New Year to make a change, I’m doing it now.
You don’t understand. I’ve been hiding in my shell for about eight years. I stopped caring for myself. I ignored the good in life and replayed all my trauma—childhood, teenage years, early twenties… all of it. But I’m only 29 for another 52 days. I’m done.
I’m stomping my foot. I’m throwing my hands up.
I’m reinventing myself for my 30s—
but especially for my kids, so they have someone strong to look up to.
This Christmas, I’m choosing peace over presents, meaning over materialism, and growth over the illusion of perfection. And I hope someone reading this chooses that too.
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