Christmas arrived again this year not with a knock, but with a quiet sigh.
It crept in through the early mornings when the air felt softer, through the faint echo of carolers practicing off-key but full of heart, through the smell of food slowly simmering in Filipino kitchens where patience is the main ingredient. Christmas never asks if we’re ready. It simply comes, carrying all that we are joy, grief, hope, exhaustion, love.
This Christmas, I noticed how different it felt.
Not worse. Not better. Just… honest.
In the Philippines, Christmas has always been loud and luminous. Parols glowing like small suns in the night. Children rehearsing carols with tin cans and shy courage. Tables stretching longer than planned, because somehow there’s always room for one more. We are a people who celebrate even when life is hard especially when life is hard.
This year, I found myself pausing more.
Pausing between conversations.
Pausing before prayers.
Pausing in the middle of laughter, realizing how precious it is.
Christmas isn’t just the twenty-fifth. It’s the weeks of preparation the grocery runs with a mother who knows exactly what’s missing, the last-minute wrapping, the gentle chaos of planning meals that taste like childhood. It’s the old traditions we carry without question, because they’ve carried us first.
And yet, beneath all the lights and noise, Christmas is quietly personal.
It asks uncomfortable questions:
Who did you become this year?
What did you survive?
Who stayed?
Who did you forgive, even if silently?
I learned that Christmas doesn’t erase the heaviness we carry. It sits beside it. Like an old friend who doesn’t rush you to explain. It reminds us that joy and sadness are not enemies. They are siblings, holding hands.
This Christmas, I didn’t wish for perfection.
I wished for meaning.
For conversations that linger.
For forgiveness that feels lighter.
For dreams that still dare to knock, even after a long year.
If you’re reading this while surrounded by family, hold them close.
If you’re reading this feeling lonely, know that you are not unseen.
If you’re reading this tired, let this be your permission to rest.
Christmas, after all, was never about having everything together. It was about love arriving humbly, quietly, bravely, right where we are.
And maybe that’s the miracle we forget.
“Christmas is not a date on the calendar. It’s a feeling we choose to keep.”
So here’s my quiet letter to you:
May you find warmth in small moments.
May your heart feel lighter than your worries.
May the coming year meet you kinder than the last.
This Christmas, may you feel held, by tradition, by love, by hope, by the simple truth that you made it here.
And that, in itself, is worth celebrating.
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