There should be a word for the space between Thanksgiving and Christmas — that weird emotional purgatory where the world smells like cinnamon, everyone is suddenly “reflective,” and capitalism is screaming at you to be festive while you’re still digesting stuffing and unresolved generational trauma.
For me, this stretch of time is… complicated.
And by “complicated,” I mean it has the same chaotic energy as a rhinestone pastie popping off mid-shimmy — unexpected, uninvited, and landing exactly where you don’t want it.
Because here’s the thing: From November 6 through December 25, my entire life becomes an emotional Advent calendar where every door reveals a different memory I didn’t ask for.
November 6 — the last time I spoke to my dad.
November 12 — my burlesque debut. (We love emotional whiplash!)
December 10 (ish) — when Nanny died.
December 22 — when Dad died.
December 25 — my birthday, aka Chrissymas. (A festive season if you like crying in sparkles and celebrating with Krampus)
It’s like the holidays looked at my trauma and said, “Okay, babe, but what if we put it in glitter??”
And honestly? I’ve spent years trying to out-perform these dates. Trying to be festive harder. Trying to be grateful louder. Trying to outrun grief by throwing tinsel at it until it looks decorative.
But here’s the confession: Grief doesn’t care that it’s the holidays. Grief doesn’t care that I’m a showgirl. Grief doesn’t even care that my birthday is on Christmas Day and I deserve a cosmic upgrade for that alone. Grief shows up when it wants. And sometimes she shows up wearing her own pair of pasties, like, “Hey girl, remember me?”
This year, though… something feels different. Maybe it’s the work I’ve been doing. Maybe it’s the healing I didn’t know I was doing. Maybe it’s just exhaustion masquerading as enlightenment. But there’s a shift.
Instead of trying to control the season — to make it tidy, to make it painless, to make it a Hallmark movie with better lighting — I’m letting it be messy.
Because the truth is: The holidays have always been a contradiction for me. Joy and grief. Celebration and memory. Birthdays and death anniversaries. Sequins and shadows.
And maybe the bravest thing I can do this year is let all of that sit at the same table. Not to fix it. Not to force it. Just to witness it. Like the world’s saddest, sparkliest potluck of feelings.
But — and here’s the glitter — right in the middle of that emotional buffet is November 12. My (virtual) burlesque debut.
The night I stepped on the virtual stage and said, “Yes, the world broke me… but you should see what I look like covered in rhinestones now.”
There’s power in that. The kind of power nobody can take from you, not even grief. Because every time I get on stage, every time I create, every time I choose joy anyway, I’m choosing myself. That’s what this season is for me now. Not cheer. Not perfection. Not pretending everything’s fine.
But choosing myself — again and again — even when the days get heavy.
Even when the ghosts show up.
Even when the calendar hurts.
Even when the world is loud and the memories are louder.
So if this season feels messy for you, too? If your cheer is lopsided or your heart feels full and empty at the same time? Pull up a chair. You’re in good company. Bring your feelings. Bring your glitter. We’re all figuring it out together.
💋 Chrissy
Your Turn:
What’s one feeling you’re letting sit at the table with you this season — even if it’s not festive?