Christmas Day: Letting It Be What It Is

Christmas Day arrives with a lot of expectation attached to it.

By the time today comes, we’ve already been surrounded by weeks of messaging about joy, gratitude, magic, and togetherness. We’re told this is the day it all comes together. The day it’s supposed to feel good. Whole. Meaningful.

But real life doesn’t always line up that neatly.

For many people—especially parents, postpartum families, and those carrying grief or exhaustion—Christmas Day can feel layered. There can be sweetness and heaviness in the same breath. Connection and distance. Love and a quiet ache that doesn’t have a clear name.

And I think it matters to say that out loud.

Christmas Day doesn’t need to be a performance. It doesn’t need to look full or festive or emotionally resolved. It doesn’t need to prove anything about how well you’re doing or how grateful you are for your life.

Sometimes Christmas Day is slow.

Sometimes it’s overstimulating .

Sometimes it’s lonely.

Sometimes it’s healing in ways you don’t notice until much later.

For parents in postpartum, today can feel especially strange. You may be celebrating while still bleeding. Still not sleeping. Still learning your baby and yourself in this new version of life. You might feel pressure to “soak it all in” while your body and nervous system are asking for rest, quiet, and less.

If that’s you, please hear this: you’re not missing anything.

Bonding doesn’t hinge on one holiday. Memories aren’t ruined by exhaustion. Love isn’t measured by how present or joyful you feel today. Showing up in the ways you can is enough.

Christmas Day can also stir things we didn’t expect. Memories of past births. Past losses. People who aren’t here. Versions of ourselves we thought we’d be by now. The body remembers seasons and transitions, and holidays have a way of opening those doors whether we invite them or not.

There is nothing wrong with you if today brings emotion instead of ease.

As a doula, I see how often people apologize for how they feel on days like this. They minimize. They push through. They tell themselves they should be happier, calmer, more thankful. But healing doesn’t happen through pressure—it happens through permission.

Permission to rest.

Permission to feel neutral.

Permission to feel sad.

Permission to feel joy without explaining it.

Permission to let this day be incomplete.

For me, Christmas Day has become less about celebration and more about attunement. Paying attention to what’s actually present instead of what’s expected. Checking in with my body. Noticing what feels grounding and what feels like too much. Choosing softness where I can.

Sometimes that looks like creating something small with my hands. Sometimes it looks like stepping away from noise. Sometimes it looks like doing nothing at all and letting that be okay.

This day doesn’t need to carry the weight of the whole year.

It doesn’t need to redeem hard seasons or forecast an easier future.

It just needs to be lived honestly.

If you’re reading this today, wherever you are—in a full house or a quiet one, holding joy or grief or both—I hope you give yourself room. Room to breathe. Room to opt out. Room to let this day pass gently instead of perfectly.

Christmas Day doesn’t define your worth, your healing, or your love.

It’s just one day.

And you’re allowed to meet it exactly as you are.