On the Pain of Manufactured Joy: How I Released My Inner Child This Christmas

This Christmas marked nine months since I made the decision to go no-contact with my parents - a decision that was even harder to reckon with during the holidays. I was adamant that the only way to get through this year’s Christmas was to detach completely.

By Cordelia Simmons, Featured Writer.

I hate Christmas. Or at least, I thought I did. From the 1st of December, all anyone can talk about is the John Lewis Christmas Ad, Carol Services and their upcoming plans with friends and family. Everything always seemed so perfect - the nuclear families laughing and playing together, couples ice-skating at Winter Wonderland, mothers and daughters having heartfelt conversations over wine and cheese. It was a manufactured joy - one with no space for hiccups, arguments or tears.

During one of the many obligatory Christmas socials at a pub in Tottenham Court Road, I remained silent whilst everyone around me discussed their family traditions. “My Dad always gets too drunk and falls asleep on the dog bed,” one person said. I didn’t want to tell them that we weren’t really one for traditions - traditions typically being things that stem from some kind of stability or a sense of belonging. Instead, our Christmas dinners were spent sitting rigid around the table, the tension so thick you could feel the weight of it on your skin.

This Christmas marked nine months since I made the decision to go no-contact with my parents - a decision that was even harder to reckon with during the holidays. The tendency to gaslight myself over the reasons why I chose to distance myself became a daily habit - was it really that bad? Are you overreacting? Was it all your fault? I was adamant that the only way to get through this year’s Christmas was to detach completely - no tree, no lights and definitely no tinsel. If I played my cards right, I could even pretend Christmas wasn’t happening at all. I spent December grumpy and bad-tempered, sighing at people walking too slowly in front of me and complaining about how expensive everything was.

In the last week before Christmas, a weird form of nostalgia rose inside of me every time I saw a perfectly manicured Christmas Tree - the giant ones that stand outside soulless offices in Central London. After becoming emotional one night watching a family play outside John Lewis, I texted a friend: “Is it possible to miss something you never had?” She told me “Yes, that some of the greatest pain we feel as adults is missing something we know we deserved.”

To combat some of the stress I was experiencing, my therapist recommended somatic dance healing - a practice that encourages messy, mindful movement through dance to release tension. Refusing to spend any extra money on Christmas, I found a ten-minute video on YouTube. My initial scepticism soon evaporated as I shook my arms and legs in time to the music. My shoulders felt loose, visualising them as waves crashing on a sandy beach. It was as if having no structure or choreography was helping me feel freer.

I wondered if embracing the same, imperfect approach could ease the tension surrounding Christmas. I wasn’t so sure detaching from the festivities altogether was the best option anymore. I thought of younger me - her blonde pigtails, her crooked smile. I wanted her to be happy, too.

Later that week, my partner surprised me with one of my presents a few days early - a 2007 JVC camcorder. I’d asked for it a few weeks prior with the goal of starting a video journal as a way of romanticising little moments throughout the day.

As I opened it, I remembered how much I used to love making home movies as a kid. One of my happiest childhood memories was watching my shaky footage from a trip to Florence and laughing at the bad angles and long zoom-ins. That night, I charged the battery and hit record, filming a dinner with friends and my dodgy attempt at a dance move I’d seen in a recent rewatch of Magic Mike. Replaying the clips the next morning on Christmas Eve felt like the start of a new tradition - one that seemed to embrace an imperfect, wobbly nature.

A few hours later, my partner and I were stuffing all of our luggage into the back of his car, ready to make the trip up to his family’s house to spend a few nights there. His parents were away, so Christmas was set to be more low-key, spent with his sister, her husband and children.

As we set off, my chest became tight and cramped, my breath shallow. What if something went wrong? What if I ruined their Christmas, too? Should I have stayed in London? I wrapped my pinky finger around my partner’s hand, which was resting on my thigh. After a few minutes, I reached for my camcorder and tightened its strap around my knuckles, putting on ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ with my other hand. My partner started singing along and laughing, my dog whining in the background. As I smiled, the camera shook, and the quality of the image became slightly grainy. Something about it felt more like home than anything I’d recorded on my iPhone.

We arrived that evening, and after unpacking, we realised a bunch of food was still sitting in our fridge back in London. Frantically googling ‘shops still open near me’, I became frustrated, convinced Christmas was ruined.

“It’s not ruined,” my partner said as I paced the kitchen. “We’ll work it out, I promise.”

I averted his gaze before responding, staring at a bag of nuts on the kitchen counter.

“I feel like I’m letting people down.”

He shook his head.

“These things happen,” he said before shivering. “It’s so cold, did you put the heating on?”

We walked over to the boiler in the garage, which was flashing the message: ‘REPRESSURISE BOILER’.

“Shit,” he said, turning back to me. “Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.”

I started to laugh - one that spread through my whole body, reminding me of how I felt when I’d danced to that YouTube video a few days before. My partner looked over to me, initially concerned, before breaking out into hysterics alongside me.

“Sorry,” I said, in between wheezes. “But that’s hilarious. Weirdly, that’s made me feel tons better.”

I thought back to the shaky footage on my camcorder and how at home it had made me feel.

The next day, with the boiler fixed, we embarked on Christmas Dinner. My one job? Air-frying the Brussel Sprouts. Easy. Before setting the timer, my partner’s nephew ran in, asking me to help him set up a den in the dining room.

“Of course,” I said, accidentally clicking twenty minutes rather than the prescribed ten.

When I opened the air-fryer twenty minutes later, their leaves were black and charred. I grimaced.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I’ve done this,” I said. “They’re burnt.”

My partner put both hands on my shoulders, applying a light pressure.

“We like them crispy,” he said, pointing to a large blue serving bowl. “Can you put them in this and put them on the table?”

I walked out into the dining room - full of laughter and warmth, just like I’d imagined as a kid. One of the chairs was empty, and I saw my younger self sitting there wearing a paper crown with cranberry sauce around her mouth. She giggled, reaching for the Brussel Sprouts. I reckon she likes them crispy too.