Christmas burnout, Permission to not be ok
Christmas Burnout: The Season That Broke Me (Again)
Every year, without fail, Christmas finds a way to completely burn me out before its even the big day!
It doesn’t arrive gently or joyfully. It arrives like a tidal wave of expectations, responsibilities, and invisible labour—most of it landing squarely on my shoulders. And somehow, every single year, I’m surprised by how exhausted, resentful, and unwell I feel by the time it’s over.
Because the truth is this: Christmas isn’t always joyful.
We’re told it’s the happiest time of the year—a season of togetherness, tradition, and warmth. But beneath that glossy surface is a reality that feels loud, demanding, and relentless. One where the pressure to appear happy outweighs the space to actually feel anything real, taking care to not have my face match my feelings in that moment little faces look up to you with sheer excitement.
And sometimes, the real feeling is that you’re not okay.
We are always the household that gets sick. The winter cold sweeps through just as the to-do lists get longer, the pressure ramps up, and the calendar fills with obligations. There’s something deeply unfair about trying to manufacture “magic” for everyone else while your body is clearly screaming for rest.
Christmas does not pause for anyone or anything, but what if it could? Oh to dream.
There are presents to buy, wrap, and remember. Food to plan, shop for, prepare, and time perfectly. Cards to write. Events to attend. Traditions to maintain. Emotions to manage. Family dynamics to carefully navigate. All while being expected to stay cheerful, grateful, and festive.
Then there’s the sensory overload.
The smell of a turkey cooking all day—thick, heavy, impossible to escape. The noise of multiple people opening presents at once, overlapping conversations, laughter colliding with raised voices. Christmas music looping endlessly in the background, not comforting but intrusive, another layer of sound pressing in on an already overwhelmed nervous system.
It’s meant to feel cosy. Instead, it can feel suffocating.
Lights too bright. Rooms too full. Movement everywhere. No quiet space to retreat to. Just stimulation piled on stimulation, while you’re still expected to smile, participate, and be grateful.
We try to hold onto family traditions because we’re told they matter—because they’re supposed to bring us closer, create joy, build memories. But too often, those very traditions ensure someone is left feeling completely drained, overlooked, or quietly breaking.
There’s always someone paying the price so everyone else can enjoy the moment.
And that person is rarely asked if they’re okay.
What gets lost is the one doing the holding.
The one keeping the mental lists. The one remembering preferences, timings, boundaries. The one managing the atmosphere so no one else has to feel uncomfortable. The one absorbing the stress so the experience looks effortless from the outside.
And when that person starts to struggle—when they’re sick, overloaded, or close to shutdown—there’s very little room for it. Christmas doesn’t leave much space for discomfort unless it threatens the schedule or disrupts the expectation.
So you push through.
You ignore your body. You override the overwhelm. You tell yourself you’ll rest later, once it’s all done. And by the time Christmas Day arrives, you’re already running on empty—physically present, emotionally gone.
What hurts most isn’t just the exhaustion.
It’s the silence around it.
The unspoken rule that you’re not allowed to struggle during a season that’s meant to be joyful. That feeling low, overwhelmed, or resentful somehow means you’re doing Christmas “wrong.”
But here’s the truth that doesn’t get said often enough:
It’s okay not to be okay. Even on occasions you’re supposed to feel the most happy. For some its handling those delicate memories with loved ones no longer with us. The ones who used to be the persom who made it magical leading to your own emotional promotion.
It doesn’t make you ungrateful. It doesn’t mean you don’t love your family. It doesn’t mean you’re failing at the season. It means you’re human.
And maybe Christmas doesn’t need to be louder, busier, or more elaborate to be meaningful.
Maybe it needs to be kinder.
Kinder to the bodies that are tired. Kinder to the nervous systems that are overloaded. Kinder to the people who carry the emotional and practical weight of making it all happen.
This isn’t a rejection of Christmas.
It’s a call to soften it.
To allow quiet. To question traditions that hurt more than they heal. To notice who is struggling beneath the lights and music and expectations. To make space for honesty, rest, and opting out when needed.
Because no celebration—no matter how cherished—is worth someone burning out in silence.
And maybe the most meaningful tradition we could start? Its always 'Happy Holidays' or Merry christmas but the reality is far from the wording even if most feel shameful to admit.
Is letting people be exactly as they are—tired, overwhelmed, imperfect—and caring for them anyway. A reminder to check on the magical person who every year goes above and beyond.
However you spend your christmas, we hope you are safe, healthy and as joyous as can be
Aml
Chantelle
