By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I have what are probably my very best arguments with myself. I am severely non-confrontational with nearly everyone—except me. With myself, I am more than happy to engage with vigor. At present, I am locked in a ferocious internal struggle, serving as both defense and prosecution, arguing both sides with equal passion. It sounds impossible, I realize, but I assure you it is not. What it is, however, is exhausting.
The trial appears to be taking place somewhere between the two hemispheres of my brain. One is forlorn, wallowing in despair that the most wonderful time of the year is all but over. The other scolds the former for being a spoiled brat—ungrateful for the unabashed blessings in which I am buried. The two sides are merciless with one another, and if I’m honest, the battle is nearly debilitating.
The struggle after Christmas has always been very real for me. When I build anticipation all year for what are my most beloved moments, only to have them slip through my hands like water, anticlimactic doesn’t begin to cover it. The closest comparison I can find is a firework. Christmas is magical and beautiful and sparkling—deeply resonant—and then, just as its impact shakes me to my core, it’s gone. I am left with warm memories, lovely gifts, and plentiful leftovers, yes. But the enchantment itself drifts away like the smoke of spent gunpowder.
I will keep my tree up as long as I possibly can. It will come down only when my husband informs me that his willingness to lug it back into the attic is contingent upon its immediate removal. And it will pain me. Though, truthfully, letting it linger too long after the season has passed brings its own ache. I know it all sounds overly dramatic—and perhaps it is—but I love Christmas with every fiber of my being. Knowing I must wait an entire year for its wonder and allure to return cannot help but sadden me.
And yet, as I type this, I’m struck by how silly it all sounds. This is when the other side rushes in, wagging its finger and delivering a stern lecture. You were given all these presents. You are typing on a brand-new laptop that runs like an Aston Martin Vanquish compared to the Pinto you were using before. You’ve already begun spending gift money. You have more decadent leftovers than you could eat in a month. And if we’re getting down to the brass tacks, you have enjoyable events ahead that you could very easily look forward to. But instead, here you are floundering because your favorite holiday has passed—despite knowing full well it will quickly return, just as it always does.
Do you see how I talk to myself? Like an impertinent child being sent to her room to think about her behavior. And the curious thing is, I can see the truth in it. I have so much to be grateful for. I shared a wonderful holiday with family and friends. I received everything I wanted—and even things I didn’t know I wanted. I have eaten enough to fell a small horse, all of it rich and indulgent in the way holidays allow.
It feels reasonable to grieve the passing of these festive, out-of-the-ordinary moments. And at the same time, I rejoice that I am not suffering loss, nor struggling beneath the weight so many others carry. I have it very good—and yet I behave as though Christmas handed me nothing but fruitcake and a lump of coal.
Perhaps there is a practical middle ground. I have yet to find it. I teeter from one extreme to the other every year, promising myself I will respond with realism and logic, only to find myself in the same internal brawl. I love Christmas. I hate to see it go. I love what it gives me—joy, beauty, belonging.
One day, I will learn how to hold tight, let go, and look ahead with joy—all at once.
Prose and Possibilities 