Growing up in an immigrant family, words like Christmas, Thanksgiving, or even birthday never really carried the sentiment of celebration. Instead, they were words wrapped in ambiguity, leaving me unsure whether the joy families on TV or kids around me seemed to derive from these occasions was learned or something inherent. At my age today, I understand this ambiguity as an inevitable symptom of cultural differences. However, as a child—and through my teen years—I loathed these days of celebration. I couldn’t reconcile the weight they held for others with the meaninglessness they had in my own household.

My family was always small. With no one but my immediate family in the States, there was no big gathering of cousins, aunts, or uncles to mark these occasions. It was just the four of us, waiting for the days when every store in the vicinity would open again, and life would return to its predictable monotony.

In college, I simplified my feelings for others by saying, “I hate the holidays.” And in many ways, I truly did. Honestly, I think I was jealous of how much a single month could mean to others. One of my best friends, V, loved the holidays with a fervor I couldn’t comprehend. He insisted we get a tree for our college house—a tree we never took down until we moved out nearly two years later. As Thanksgiving and Christmas approached, the house shifted: the food became more festive, Mariah Carey became a permanent resident, and presents slowly piled up under the tree.

The long-awaited holidays arrived, and around mid-December, we exchanged gifts. Then the house went quiet. That year, due to the pandemic, I stayed behind at the house, spending the holidays alone for the first time. The days passed as I binged season after season of Gossip Girl. Strangely, though, I didn’t feel the same loathing I had in years prior.

One night, I walked into the living room and looked at the Christmas tree. A quiet warmth settled over me. I realized then that the holidays were never about extravagant plans or the size of the gathering. They were about spending time with the people you love most—whether it’s family you were born into or family you choose.

Paradoxically, while I was alone that year, I found myself reminiscing on the simplicity of holidays past. I felt gratitude for those moments—days free of responsibility, spent with people who mattered. Now, as a post-grad, I look forward to celebrating the holidays with my chosen family every year, whether it’s in a cabin tucked away in Big Bear or the bustling streets of New York City. And on Christmas Day, I get to spend it with my small but special family.

Merry Christmas.

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