I’m not a Scrooge, but I’ve never been a holiday person. Despite what people might assume about me, I don’t like attention, and I don’t thrive on cheeriness. The production, the lights strung everywhere across town—they almost feel personal, like they’re strung to overwhelm you. Christmas music? Forget it. Play Zeppelin, play J. Lo, play Smokey—always play Willie—but don’t play Christmas music. The gifts, the socializing, the endless commotion—they aren’t for me. I crave quiet. A silent room is my favorite room. I like to hear myself think. I like peace to greet my head at the door after a long day. Writing is my refuge, and placidity is my closest friend. For someone like me, the holidays are overwhelming. They are everything opposite of the quiet I chase. They make me want to take a detour to any pole but north. If there’s a place in the world that doesn’t celebrate, a place that is simple and untouched all year long, I’d go there. I’d happily go there.
And yet, this year felt different. Somehow, despite my usual resistance, I found myself swept into a new kind of spirit. Maybe it’s growth. Maybe it’s the natural ebb and flow of life, the way we change again and again. But this wasn’t just a holiday spirit I was feeling—it was the human spirit.
We all know, in theory, that a little kindness goes a long way. But human nature is forgetful. Sometimes, we overlook how a small gesture can shift a day, a mindset, even a heart. That small kindness can make the twinkle of a single light more bearable, or even beautiful. It can make the chaos of decorations feel like joy rather than noise. My kind of lights.
Christmas, I’ve learned, isn’t about production, social gatherings, or a frenzy of spending and gifting. Christmas is a spirit, a reflection of the human spirit that can exist any time of year. And when that spirit is positive, uplifting, and gentle, who wants to run from it? Who wants to drown in bitterness, in the sourness of a bag of lemon drops? We just need to add a little sugar. Sweeten them. Make it a sweet, sweet season. A sweet, sweet life.
Take my mom, for instance.
She loves decorating her front lawn for Christmas. It’s a big deal for her. One year, she put up five Christmas trees. She goes all out. Every year, she calls me once it’s all done, demanding to know my opinion as I pull into her driveway. This year, she begged me to come outside with her, to make sure it was “just right.” I didn’t want to. Like I said, I couldn’t care less about decorations. But then it hit me—she cares. It’s important to her. And if I truly care about someone else, isn’t that enough reason to participate? Those lights light her up. And that’s what matters. This isn’t about wreaths, or the best-decorated house, or even about me. It’s about kindness. It’s about making my mom happy with the simplest act: standing outside with her to see the lights.
My mom is 60 years old. I never thought I’d find myself thinking differently about her at this age. I fuss less now. I care more. She’s the only parent close by, and I’ve learned to appreciate the time I have with her. My mom’s love for decorating and her need to share it reminds me to celebrate the spirit, not the production. And when I think of it that way, I want to stay. I don’t want to escape. I want to immerse myself in this genuine human spirit so I can be better—so I can give better.
Maybe the lovers of the world have it right. Kindness is contagious. Perhaps those who seem hardened just need more of it. Perhaps the holiday spirit isn’t just for the holidays—it’s a reminder to overflow with generosity of heart. Some people say garland is gaudy. Too much. But maybe we should wrap ourselves in that garland, let the bright chaos of decorations remind us to be abundant with kindness. Nothing in excess? Maybe kindness is the exception. It can’t be too much. And yes, I remind myself of this constantly—I’m the one who needs these lessons the most.
So, wrap me in garland. Let the chaos humble me. Let the long lines, the overspending, the clamor, the tacky decorations, and even the stress, remind me to stay gentle. Because the beautiful thing about this spirit is… it’s a spirit of giving. Giving your time, your patience, your joy, to someone other than yourself. It’s putting “you” before “I.” Life can be hard. People can be mean. But kindness, genuine human kindness, can never be taken from you. Not even by a sour world.
I saw this recently at a Burger King drive-thru. Before 7 a.m., I was desperate for coffee, desperate for a little lift. The cashier’s kindness changed everything. She listened to my ice request, sweetly filled my cup, and even asked if I was on my way to work. That small moment—the care in her tone, the genuine attention—cleared my mind of morning grumpiness. Her spirit wasn’t seasonal; it was human. She reminded me that the world is filled with people like her, quietly spreading kindness. The haters, the cynics—they need that human spirit more than anyone.
Think of it like a cup overflowing—a latte foam spilling over, a soda bubbling endlessly. My goal is to be that cup. Overflowing, so I can fill others without draining myself. I want to be able to fill my mom’s heart with joy, to appreciate her lights without annoyance, to pass on that warmth freely. When we fill our own cups, we can fill others’ as well. And that’s what Christmas, and life, is really about.
That escape I thought I needed—the one I imagined every year—is no longer necessary. The human spirit, the spirit of giving, of love, of presence, has always been all around me. I just needed to see it.
