Walking home against a gust that cut to the bone, I wore a puffer zipped to my eyes with one of those tented hoods that block all peripheral senses, my hat and scarf tucked underneath. I gazed longingly into windows of warm homes like an orphan child wandering the streets alone on a cold winter’s night.  In one window – a stone townhouse with Victorian trim – stood a narrow Christmas tree, aglow with tastefully spaced white lights. It was so pretty. I cried. 

There it was, on the first of December. I could hear the tree saying, look, here I am, back again, like a hug from an old friend I didn’t know I needed until I felt its embrace.

In years past, Christmas arrived at fraught times in my family – times of grief, illness, addiction, conflict. Plus, growing up with divorced parents meant my earliest Christmases were contested – spending Christmas Eve with one and Christmas Day with the other – oscillating between two households and its traditions. 

I saw the stress that the holidays brought on people I love. With a calendar full of parties and closets stuffed with wrapping paper, like clockwork my mom would sling her classic line – Forget it–Christmas is canceled. I’m just not cut out for it this year. (Of course a few hours later,  Christmas would carry on as usual). 

In the car when “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” came on the radio, I’d join my older sister in sneering. What an insensitive song. Don’t they know Christmas time has the highest rate of suicide? Switch. 

A few years ago I’d told my boyfriend Parker that December was a difficult time for me, that it brought a milestone of some troubling scenes, that I might seem a bit down around the holidays as a result. 

Recently, sitting in the passenger seat of his 4Runner on our way to pick up Thai, it must’ve crossed his mind. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to enjoy Christmas this year?” Parker asked.

I was struck by the question–it was genuine and simple. 

Since joining the workforce, I’ve found myself more drawn to Christmas cheer. The other day I dropped $70 on the smallest tree available at a local christmas stand (WholeFoods would’ve been half the price but I got guilt-tripped into supporting small business). I’ve traded my americanos for peppermint mochas. I’d decorate a gingerbread house if I weren’t so worried about the rodents it’d attract, scarred from the time I found mouse droppings littered across the gumdrop walkway of the one I’d made when I was a kid. 

And I’ve streamed all my favorite Christmas classics dutifully–Wham’s “Last Christmas,” Sinatra’s “Christmas Waltz,” The Waitresses’ “Christmas Wrapping.” I even set my new fancy Hatch alarm clock to its seasonal featured offering–Charlie Brown’s “Christmas Time Is Here”–even though it’s higher-pitch than I remember and honestly sounds a bit creepy for 7 am. 

With each beloved melody, though, I feel a little pang of sadness, knowing our window together is closing. Knowing how fleeting the December weeks are–when the winter weather feels cozy, the bare branches shine with wrapped string lights, darkness brightened by festive decor. Knowing that in a few weeks it’ll just be cold, the branches will just be bare, and the skies will just be dark. 

But that’s why the Christmas tree made me cry. We have all year to forget about it, all year to face our hardships, test our friendships, read the news about nations at war. And then it’s December first, and the tree returns in spite of it all, and we’re moved again. 

I recognize that Christmas can present an especially challenging time for many, a time when the expectations to be happy are extra burdensome, when the incandescent bulbs only illuminate just how un-like a hallmark movie we really are. But this year, I also recognize that many things are true at once.  

“Yeah,” I answered Parker. “I think I will.” Because maybe it is that simple.