I love Christmas.
I really, really do.
It’s my favourite time of the year. I love the lights, the smell of the house when something is simmering on the hob for far longer than necessary, the excuse for extra cups of tea, and the feeling that, for a few days at least, it’s okay to slow down and be a bit softer with each other.
And yes, I even love the madness of it.
The Instagram version of Christmas is everywhere—matching pyjamas, perfect families, the dog sitting obediently in front of the tree like he’s been trained by a professional, everyone glowing and organised.
Meanwhile, in most Irish houses, someone is roaring “WHERE did the Sellotape GO?” while wrapping a present on the floor, someone else is wondering if the turkey will ever cook through, and a small child is hiding the chocolate biscuits like it’s an Olympic event. That chaos? That’s the Christmas I know and love.
But let’s be honest—even for those of us who adore it, Christmas can be hard.
Sometimes very hard.
It’s heavy for people who’ve lost parents, children, partners—people whose absence is louder than any Christmas carol.
It’s heavy for those living with illness, grief, exhaustion, or life’s little curveballs, trying to muster festive cheer when their body or heart is saying, not today.
It’s heavy for families under financial pressure, juggling the idea of a “perfect Christmas” while silently panicking about how January will be survived.
That part doesn’t make it into the photos.
And then there’s the pressure—the uniquely festive pressure to be ready.
“Are ye all set?”
“Ah yeah, nearly there,” we reply, lying through our teeth, while internally listing the thousand and one things left to do.
This year, I find myself a bit on the outskirts of it all.
Not racing around the shops.
Not bumping into people and doing the full “Oh my God, I’ve nothing done!” dance.
Not caught up in the frantic energy that usually pulls me along.
Instead, I’m watching Christmas rather than chasing it.
And I won’t lie—there’s a strangeness in that. But there’s also clarity.
When you’re forced to slow down—whether through illness, exhaustion, or life simply putting its foot down—you notice things differently. You see how much effort people are making, how much is being carried quietly, how many are smiling bravely while juggling far more than anyone realises.
You also see how wonderfully bonkers it all is.
How we convince ourselves that this year has to be perfect.
That joy can be scheduled between supermarket runs.
That love is best expressed via receipts, batteries included, and a quick prayer that the toy works straight out of the box.
And then January arrives, calm and ruthless, asking, “Right so… how are we paying for all that?”
Still—and this is important—I wouldn’t swap Christmas.
I love the small, real moments that don’t need any performance:
The quiet cup of tea when the house finally settles.
The honest conversations that don’t require cheerfulness.
The shared laughter at how chaotic it all is.
Maybe this Christmas doesn’t need to sparkle quite so much.
Maybe it just needs to be kind.
Being on the outside looking in doesn’t mean you’ve missed Christmas. Sometimes it gives you a different view—one that comes with more compassion, less comparison, and a deeper understanding that we never really know what’s happening behind anyone else’s matching pyjamas.
And let’s be honest—Christmas in Ireland wouldn’t be complete without at least one family argument over the turkey, a debate about whether the sprouts were boiled too long, someone inevitably dropping a bauble off the tree while trying to hang it “just so,” and a small person dramatically announcing they’re allergic to chocolate five minutes after opening a box of chocolates. You laugh, you roll your eyes, you pour another cup of tea—and somehow, that chaos is part of the magic too.
So if you’re loving Christmas—brilliant.
If you’re just about managing it—fair play.
If you’re finding it tough—there’s nothing wrong with you.
You can love Christmas and still find it hard.
Sure isn’t that the most Irish thing of all?
