If I Could Gift Myself Anything This Chrissymas...

There’s a special kind of chaos that comes with being born on Christmas Day. It’s like the universe said, “Let’s give her the gift of never having a normal birthday ever again,” and then wrapped it in cinnamon, social pressure, emotional landmines, and gift bags labeled “Merry Birthmas!” as if that made it better.

For most of my life, the 25th has never fully belonged to me. I was always sharing it — with the holiday, with other people’s expectations, with memories that hit harder in December than any other time of year.

Then, in 2023, something shifted.

Someone finally looked at the way Christmas kept steamrolling my birthday — the grief, the obligations, the emotional residue — and said something simple that landed deeper than they probably realized:

It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t performative. It was practical recognition: Your birthday deserves its own space. And that was the first year the word Chrissymas actually meant something. Not a combination holiday. Not a compromise.

A declaration that this day — my day — didn’t have to be swallowed whole by tradition or trauma or anyone else’s story.

Chrissymas became… breathing room. A day reclaimed. A day where I wasn’t disappearing beneath the weight of everything December holds.

And this year, standing on the edge of another Chrissymas, I’ve been thinking: if I could gift myself absolutely anything — no rules, no practicality, no external validation required — what would I choose?

Turns out, none of the things I want come in wrapping paper.

Just one day where my nervous system isn’t busy firefighting emotional flare-ups. A day where I’m not bracing for memories. A day that doesn’t require armor.

To not shrink.

To not swallow my needs.

To not soften myself so someone else can stay comfortable.

To exist in full color — rhinestones included.

December has always been a collision of grief anniversaries and holiday expectations.

My gift to myself is allowing Chrissymas to be a pivot point — not forgetting what came before, but choosing what comes next.

The version of me who wakes up knowing: I am allowed. I am deserving. I don’t need permission to build a life that fits me.

Whether that’s in my home, in my routines, or in my own arms — I want softness. Not perfection. Not solutions. Just a gentle place to exhale.

The grief isn’t going anywhere — grief is loyal like that. But maybe the ratio can shift. Maybe the glitter can edge out the shadows by just a breath. Maybe that’s enough.

Because Chrissymas, for me, isn’t just my birthday. It’s the day I get to reclaim myself. The day I get to step out from under everything December tried to take. The day I stop sharing space with ghosts and start creating space for the woman I’m becoming.

And if I could give myself one more thing?

Not later. Not “when things calm down.” Not when I’ve earned the right to rest. Right now. Exactly as I am.

That’s my Chrissymas list.

What’s on yours?

💋 Chrissy

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