I Put the Christmas Decorations Away Properly
This Is Not the Success Story You Think It Is
I need to say this out loud, if only to hear how ridiculous it sounds:
This year, I put the Christmas decorations away properly.
I know.
I barely recognise myself either.
Not the usual “stuff-it-all-into-a-box-and-slam-the-lid” job.
Not the “future me can deal with that” approach.
Properly.
Because early-December Me is already hanging by a thread.
She does not need tangled lights to push her over the edge.
So I showed up for her.
I folded the lights the correct way instead of wrapping them around my arm like a possessed octopus.
I wrapped the baubles individually, like delicate emotional support ornaments.
I put the tree back into the box the way the instructions suggest, not the way panic dictates.
I labelled things.
I actually labelled things.
I stood there afterwards, deeply impressed with myself, thinking:
Well now. Look at you. A woman who has her life together.
Which — if experience has taught me anything — is precisely the moment life says,
“Ah no. We can’t be having that.”
Even when you do everything right, sometimes it still all goes wrong.
I warmed up.
I followed the plan.
I did the exercises.
I was sensible.
I listened.
I did everything right.
And my Achilles still ruptured.
No dramatic backstory.
No wild recklessness.
Just me, minding my own business, and my body casually announcing,
Absolutely not.
Which feels deeply unfair, if I’m honest.
It turns out effort does not equal immunity.
Organisation does not equal control.
And being smug for even five minutes is always a mistake.
You can fold the lights perfectly and next December one strand will be dead, one will flicker ominously, and one will definitely belong to something you no longer own.
We’re very committed to looking like we know what we’re doing.
Like our lives are neatly boxed, labelled, and stacked safely in the attic of competence.
Like we’re the kind of people who always put things away properly.
But most of us are one loose lid away from chaos.
Injury has a great way of blowing that image apart.
So does exhaustion.
So does life just happening without checking with you first.
Suddenly you realise you’re not actually in control —
you’re just very good at pretending you are.
Which is humbling.
And annoying.
And strangely freeing.
There’s real power in admitting:
I did everything right and it still went wrong.
I don’t have a neat lesson from this.
I’m not inspirational about it — I’m just getting on with it.
Because the second you say it, someone else exhales and thinks,
Oh thank God. It’s not just me.
Your injury isn’t unique.
Your struggles aren’t unique.
Your mess isn’t a personal failure.
It’s just what happens when you’re alive and trying.
And maybe we don’t need to polish it all so much.
Maybe we can loosen the image, laugh at the mess, and stop pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn’t.
So yes. I put them away properly.
And yes, I fully expect December Me to open a box next year and say,
Why is this broken?
Why is this sticky?
And why are there three extensions and no lights?
Because life is not a before-and-after photo.
It’s more of an ongoing series of mild surprises.
You do your best.
You keep going.
You laugh when you can.
And if nothing else,
at least the lights are folded.
Which means I’ll only lose some of my mind next year.
