There is a special kind of magic in the days around Christmas.
Not the big cinematic kind with perfect families and snowflakes falling in slow motion.
The smaller kind.
Almost invisible.
The kind that happens when you decide, for no good reason at all,
to light one small candle and let it burn until the wax forgets what year it is.
I used to think that this season needed to be meaningful in a grand way.
Big resolutions. Big healings. Big emotions.
Now I am quietly in love with the tiny things that refuse to be impressive
and insist on being real instead.
Like the way a mug of something warm can suddenly feel
like a secret portal back to yourself.
Or the way fairy lights look absolutely ridiculous
and absolutely necessary
at the same time.
Maybe this is what Christmas is for me now:
a gentle, slightly stubborn refusal to let the world be only practical.
A reminder that I am allowed
to do small, beautiful, unnecessary things
just because they make my soul exhale.
I don’t want a perfect holiday.
I want:
- one conversation that feels like a blanket,
- one moment of stupid, contagious laughter,
- one song that makes the room softer,
- and at least a few minutes where time forgets to chase me.
If miracles happen — wonderful.
If they don’t, I will still have my tiny rebellion of light:
this mug, this candle, this quiet choice
to be a little kinder to myself than the year has been.
So if this season feels strange, uneven, not-like-the-movies,
you are not broken.
You are simply human, standing in front of a tree (or a plant, or a lamp)
and deciding:
“I will make a little glow here anyway.
Not because everything is okay.
But because I am still here — and that deserves a little light.”
Maybe that is enough magic for one Christmas.
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