The Glow Is Enough

When we put up our Christmas tree this year, it was a test. With two nine-month-old kittens in the house, I envisioned scenes of toppled pines, shattered ornaments, and cats tangled in twinkle lights. So, instead of loading the tree with our usual collection of ornaments, I left it bare—just the tree, its lights, and an experiment in simplicity. 

At first, the empty branches felt strange, almost unfinished. But as the tree glowed softly in the corner, the kittens cuddled up on us and purred quietly, and a favorite holiday movie played on TV, I realized I wasn’t missing the ornaments. The tree, in its unadorned state, was perfect.

This bare tree taught me something I tend to forget this time of year: we don’t have to add so much for the season to feel magical. Sometimes, less really is more. 

The holidays have a way of bringing out my inner overachiever. Every December, I pile my plate high with Pinterest-worthy projects and Hallmark-level expectations: handmade gifts, elaborate cookies, and meticulously decorated trees. Somewhere along the way, the season shifts from joyful to stressful, and instead of feeling cozy, I’m counting down to January to catch my breath.

This year, though, I decided to try something different. The urge to do more, get more, buy more is everywhere. Just after Black Friday and Cyber Monday (and my invented Regretful Tuesday), I’m bracing myself against the crush of consumerism.

I’ve already checked off the lists of presents for my good little boys (and their dad), but the urge to keep going is strong. Flash sales and countdown clocks bombard my inbox, and I’ve found it easier to delete texts and emails in bulk rather than risk temptation. It’s a small act of rebellion—a reminder that the holidays aren’t about how many packages arrive at my doorstep. 

Holiday baking has long been one of my favorite traditions, but I’ve realized that somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the joy of baking and turned into a marathon of perfecting. Hours spent scooping identically sized cookies, arranging them into Instagram-worthy boxes, and staying up late to ensure everything looked, well, perfect. 

But this year, I made myself a promise: no all-nighters, no artisan boxes. Instead, the kids and I tried some new recipes alongside the family favorites. By the end, the kitchen was a mess, the cookies were more abstract art projects than Good Housekeeping recipe card illustrations, we all ate well beyond our share of raw dough, and the frosting was everywhere except the cookies. And it was perfect.

The lesson of letting go has stretched into other parts of the season, too. Instead of writing out every address and perfectly aligning stamps on Christmas cards myself, I handed the stack to my family. The cards went out with some stamps a little askew, but we laughed at the kitchen table as we worked through the pile. The joy wasn’t in getting the cards “just right”—it was in the shared effort and knowing that we’d sent our love out into the world together.

Even the gift-wrapping has become a team effort. In years past, I stayed up late, ensuring every corner was crisp and every bow perfectly tied. This year, I handed over the tape and let the kids wrap the gifts we’d picked out for family and friends. The paper might be wrinkled, and the bows might not match, but the pride in their eyes as they tucked their gifts under the tree was pure magic. Watching their excitement as they wait for someone to open a gift they’ve wrapped themselves reminds me that this is what the holidays are about—not perfection, but love. 

The minimalist tree, the messy, delicious cookies, the slightly crooked, joyous wrapping paper—they’re all teaching me the same lesson this year: that the best parts of the holidays aren’t in the things we create but in the moments we share. 

And maybe that’s the gift I’m giving myself this year—the freedom to embrace imperfection and to focus on what really matters. The glow, it turns out, is enough.