The Year I Kept Christmas for Myself

A week before Christmas, I walked into my mother’s kitchen carrying a binder, a wreath, and the feeling that this might finally be the year I got to enjoy the holiday I always engineered.

The air inside smelled like cinnamon and pine, that seasonal alchemy that’s supposed to trigger joy but lately just triggered exhaustion. I could hear voices from the living room—my siblings gathered for what Mom called a “planning session” but what I’d learned to recognize as a delegation meeting where I was both the primary agenda item and conspicuously absent from the invite list.

I’m Margot. Thirty-two. An event planner who spends eleven months making other people’s gatherings feel effortless and the twelfth rescuing my own family’s increasingly chaotic attempts at holiday magic. This year, I’d started early. Reserved the butcher’s best heritage ham back in October when I was there picking up provisions for a client’s farm-to-table rehearsal dinner. Designed custom coloring books with our family traditions sketched in delicate line art—the gingerbread house competition, the Christmas Eve scavenger hunt, the ornament exchange that had been happening since before I was born. I’d even typed up a minute-by-minute run of show because love, I’ve learned, is logistics. Love is remembering that Thomas’s daughter Emma is allergic to tree nuts and that Abigail’s son Jackson will only eat carrots if they’re cut into coins, not sticks, and that Dad likes his coffee at exactly 6:47 a.m., not a minute sooner or later.

I set my bags down by the hallway, the binder’s weight familiar in my hands—dividers color-coded, vendor contacts highlighted, backup plans for the backup plans. Through the archway, I could see the edge of Mom’s good couch, the one we weren’t allowed to sit on as kids, now occupied by adults who’d somehow forgotten they once jumped on it in their socks.

That’s when I heard my name.

“So we’re agreed,” Abigail said, using the voice she’d perfected in her years as a corporate attorney—the one that made statements sound like collaborative decisions even though the verdict had already been reached. “Margot watches all five kids during the adult dinner.”

I froze with one hand still on the wreath, my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

“All five” meant her twins, Jackson and James—seven-year-old boys with endless energy and a gift for finding exactly which antique vase was most breakable. And Thomas’s trio: Sophie, Emma, and Lucas, ages nine, six, and four, respectively, each one precious and exhausting in equal measure. Five children under ten, which to anyone who’d ever spent time with that demographic would recognize as approximately four children too many for one adult to supervise while also somehow preparing and serving food, managing meltdowns, preventing injuries, and maintaining the appearance of having it all under control.

My mother hummed approval, that particular note of satisfaction she made when someone else had articulated exactly what she’d been thinking. “She’s wonderful with them. And she already planned activities.”

My jaw clenched. Yes, I’d planned activities. An entire craft station organized by age and skill level, with biodegradable glitter because Abigail had gone eco-conscious last year and wouldn’t shut up about microplastics. Handprint ornaments for the youngest ones. Friendship bracelet kits for the older kids. A felt Christmas tree with velcro decorations that could be rearranged infinitely for the middles who got bored easily.

But those activities were designed for after dinner. After we’d all eaten together, after the dishes had been cleared, after the adults had pushed back from the table with that satisfied exhaustion that comes from good food and better company. The plan was for everyone to sit on the floor together—grandparents and parents and children and me—helping with glitter glue and praising wonky ornaments while coffee steeped and Christmas music played softly and the evening settled into that perfect golden hour of family connection.

Not… child-containment duty while everyone else had a wine-paired meal in peace.

“She can eat early with the kids,” Thomas added, his voice carrying that casual certainty of someone who’d never spent a family dinner in the children’s room. “Then handle cleanup. Last year was chaos; I barely tasted anything Margot cooked.”

Last year’s menu had taken me three days to execute. A standing rib roast that I’d watched like a hawk, basting every twenty minutes. Roasted root vegetables with herbs from my own winter garden. Potato gratin that required slicing everything uniformly thin, layering with precision, the kind of dish that looks effortless but requires the timing of a Swiss watch. Apple tart with homemade crust because the store-bought version doesn’t brown right.

I’d barely tasted it either, but that was because I’d been up since five a.m. making sure everyone else could.

They laughed—softly, fondly, the way people laugh when they’re very sure the person they’re assigning work to will say yes because she always has. The sound wrapped around me like a familiar coat that had stopped fitting years ago but I kept wearing out of habit.

Someone mentioned “Santa duties”—which meant I’d be staying up until at least midnight arranging presents under the tree with precisely calibrated fairness so no one felt slighted. Someone else said “snowman pancakes” for breakfast, which would require waking up at dawn to make shaped pancakes for seven adults and five children while managing my mother’s ancient griddle that heated unevenly and required constant monitoring.

No one asked if I had plans. No one remembered that I’d mentioned—twice now, once in October and once at Thanksgiving—that I was bringing Jason. Jason, who I’d been dating for eight months. Jason, who’d met my family exactly once at a Labor Day barbecue where everyone was so focused on the borrowed bounce house that they’d barely spoken to him. Jason, who’d asked me last week, “Do they even know I exist?” and I’d laughed it off because the alternative was crying.

No one remembered because my presence had become so assumed, so built into the infrastructure of our family gatherings, that my actual personhood had become optional.

I backed away before the floorboards could betray me with their century-old creaks. Collected my binder and my wreath and the dignity I could still scrape together. Found my car keys with hands that shook just slightly. Drove home on muscle memory, the route so familiar I barely registered the turns.

In my dining room—wrapping paper lined up like a Pantone strip, gifts organized by recipient and priority, my system so refined I could have wrapped presents in my sleep—I let myself feel what I’d been pushing down for years.

First came the anger, hot and sharp. How dare they. How dare they assume my time, my skills, my entire Christmas was theirs to allocate like I was a shared resource instead of a person. How dare they reduce me to childcare and cleanup, as if the woman who orchestrated fifty-person weddings with multiple dietary restrictions and complex family dynamics was best utilized making chicken nuggets and wiping up spills.

Then came the sadness behind the anger, softer and deeper. The grief of recognition: somewhere along the way, I’d become the person they called when they needed something, not the person they called to see how I was doing. I’d become the solution to their problems, the fix-it woman, the one who made everything work so well they’d forgotten it required actual work.

And finally, behind both the anger and sadness, came clarity.

My time had become communal property. A resource they felt entitled to schedule, allocate, and deplete without consultation or compensation. And I had trained them to treat me this way by saying yes every single time, by making miracles look easy, by absorbing their chaos and transforming it into magic while smiling the whole time.

I looked at my dining room table, at the evidence of my preparation. At the meal plans and the activity schedules and the backup batteries I’d already purchased. At the version of Christmas I’d been building for people who’d forgotten to invite me to my own holiday.

I am a professional at Plan B.

And sometimes Plan B means choosing yourself.

By noon the next day I’d booked a last-minute oceanfront suite. Five nights, starting Christmas Eve. The resort was three hours north, perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, all floor-to-ceiling windows and fireplaces and a restaurant that had gotten a James Beard nomination last year. It cost more than I’d usually spend on a vacation—significantly more—but the kitchen renovation I’d been saving for could wait another few months. My self-respect could not.

I called Jason first. “Remember how you said you wished we could have Christmas to ourselves?”

His pause was brief. “Did something happen?”

“Everything happened. Nothing happened. Does it matter?” I took a breath. “There’s an oceanfront suite with our names on it. Five nights. We can sleep in, we can eat what we want when we want, we can ignore obligations and traditions and just… be. Come with me?”

His yes was immediate and warm and exactly what I needed. “I’ll pack tonight. Should I bring anything specific?”

“Just yourself. And maybe that bottle of wine you’ve been saving.”

Next, I called Anthony Ducas, the caterer who’d worked with me on a dozen events over the past three years. The man who’d once pulled off a seven-course tasting menu when the client changed the entire concept forty-eight hours before service. Who’d taught me that the difference between good events and great ones often came down to people who understood that impossible just meant expensive.

“Anthony, I need a miracle.”

He laughed. “Of course you do. What’s the event?”

“Christmas dinner for my family. Two menus. Beef Wellington with sides and wine pairings for five adults—make it impressive but achievable for someone with moderate cooking skills. Full instructions, idiot-proof reheating directions. And a kids’ menu: chicken tenders, mac and cheese, roasted broccoli with cheese, and sugar cookies shaped like snowmen. Everything labeled. Everything foolproof. Can you deliver at 4 p.m. on Christmas Day?”

“To your mom’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be there to receive?”

“No.”

The silence stretched for three seconds. Then: “Margot. Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“I’m taking Christmas off.”

“Jesus. Okay. Yes. Absolutely yes. Consider it done.” He paused. “And Margot? Good for you.”

The next three days became a quiet insurgency.

I retrieved my grandmother’s hand-painted ornaments from my mother’s house under the pretense of “finalizing the menu,” tucking them carefully into padded boxes. They’d hung on my grandmother’s tree for sixty years before she’d passed them to me with strict instructions that they were mine, not the family’s. Somehow they’d migrated to Mom’s house three Christmases ago during a “reorganization” and had never found their way back. Now they would spend the holiday on my tree, in my space, honored the way she’d intended.

I collected the stockings I’d embroidered years ago—one for each family member, hundreds of hours of work, each one customized with names and tiny symbols representing their interests. They’d been hanging on Mom’s mantle, credited to “the family” in that vague way that erased my labor. I left the hooks empty. They could hang dish towels if they wanted something festive.

I wrapped gifts for the kids because whatever else was happening, I loved those children and they didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle. Five presents, carefully chosen and age-appropriate, arranged for courier delivery on Christmas morning. I included cards that said, “Merry Christmas! Love, Aunt Margot” and nothing else, because explaining wasn’t their burden to carry.

Every request that pinged my phone got the same carefully constructed response: “My schedule’s tight this year. I’ll see what I can do.”

Can you pick up batteries for all the toys? Schedule’s tight. I’ll see what I can do.

Can you draft a scavenger hunt like the one from three years ago? Schedule’s tight. I’ll see what I can do.

Can you come early to rearrange furniture so we have room for the kids’ table? Schedule’s tight. I’ll see what I can do.

The thing about boundaries is they don’t require justification. They don’t need defense. They just need maintenance.

Two days before Christmas, Mom called. “Margot, honey, I haven’t seen you all week. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Mom. Just busy with year-end client events.”

“Well, you’re still coming Christmas Eve, right? We have so much to do, and you’re so much better at organizing everything than the rest of us.”

I looked at my suitcase, already half-packed. At Jason’s toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom. At the future I was choosing over the past I’d been handed.

“I’ll be there in spirit.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I love you and I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”

“Margot Ann—”

“I have another call coming in, Mom. Talk soon.”

On December 24, at 4:47 a.m., I loaded my car in the dark. My suitcase. Jason’s bag. The box of grandmother’s ornaments. A cooler with breakfast pastries and good coffee. The electric kettle I’d bought specifically for this trip. Two books I’d been meaning to read for months. The feeling that I was either making the best decision of my life or the worst, and that either way, I needed to know.

Jason climbed into the passenger seat with two travel mugs and a smile. “Ready?”

“Ask me in five hours.”

We drove north as the sun came up, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that felt like permission. I powered off my phone somewhere around exit 47, the weight of connectivity lifting like fog.

We powered them back on at the airport—because that’s where we’d told them we were going, to a fictional sister of Jason’s who lived conveniently far away—at exactly 10 a.m. The messages stacked like accusations.

Where are you? We need to talk about the seating arrangement. Did you remember to order the specific cranberry sauce Dad likes? Jackson is asking for you. This is ridiculous. Call me back.

I sent one message to the family group chat:

“Won’t be available for childcare during dinner. Enjoy your adult meal. Food will be delivered at 4 p.m. tomorrow—reheating instructions included. Gifts for the kids arriving Christmas morning. I’ll see you all when I get back. Love, M.”

The phone rang before I’d even set it down.

I answered.

“Where are you?” my mother demanded, her voice sharp with the particular panic that comes from a plan falling apart.

I watched Jason check us in at the resort desk, his shoulders relaxed in a way I rarely saw them around my family. “Mom,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “don’t wait for me.”

Her silence was the longest sound I’ve ever heard.

“What do you mean don’t wait for you? You’re hosting Christmas. You’re handling the children. You’re—”

“I’m not available this year.”

“Not available? Margot, this is Christmas. Family comes first.”

The words stuck in my throat for a moment—all the responses I could give, all the ways I could explain that I’d been putting family first for so long I’d forgotten what my own face looked like. But explanations weren’t boundaries. Explanations were negotiations.

“The food will arrive at four. Everything’s labeled. You’ll be fine.”

“Fine? How are we supposed to manage five children while we’re trying to eat?”

The question hung in the air, and I realized she was genuinely asking. That she genuinely didn’t see how she’d just articulated exactly why I’d left.

“However you want, Mom. You’re all capable adults. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Your father is going to be so disappointed.”

“Then he can call me himself.”

I hung up before she could respond. Turned the phone off completely. Watched Jason return with room keys and a smile.

“Ready to start our Christmas?” he asked.

I took his hand. “Absolutely.”

Our suite was everything the photos had promised and more. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, waves crashing against rocks fifty feet below. A fireplace with logs already stacked. A kitchen stocked with local wine and cheese and olives, like someone had predicted exactly what we’d need. Two plush robes hanging in the closet. Silence that felt like luxury.

We spent Christmas Eve drinking wine by the fire, cooking pasta in our pajamas at 9 p.m. because we could, watching old movies we’d both seen a hundred times. No schedule. No obligations. No one needed me to be anything other than exactly who I was.

Christmas morning, we slept until nine. Made coffee slowly. Opened gifts to each other—small things, thoughtful things, chosen because we’d been paying attention. Jason had gotten me a first edition of my favorite novel, had somehow tracked it down through rare book dealers. I’d gotten him the chef’s knife he’d been eyeing for months, the one he’d never buy himself.

We went for a walk on the beach, bundled in coats and scarves, the winter wind sharp and clean. Had lunch at the resort restaurant—lobster bisque and fresh bread and a dessert we split because we could. Napped in the afternoon because no one needed us awake.

I turned my phone on once, briefly, just to make sure no one had died.

Sixty-three messages. Forty-seven from the family group chat. Sixteen individual texts. Four voicemails.

I read none of them. Just confirmed that all the messages started with words, not “call immediately” or “emergency,” which meant everyone was alive and that was enough.

I turned it off again and didn’t feel guilty about it.

We came home on December 29, tanned from beach walks and rested in a way I didn’t remember being rested before. The drive back was quiet, contemplative, both of us knowing we were returning to consequences but not quite ready to name them.

My phone stayed off until we reached my driveway. Jason kissed me before heading to his own apartment. “Whatever happens,” he said, “you were right to go. Don’t let them make you doubt that.”

I powered on my phone.

The messages had multiplied. The tone had evolved from confusion to anger to something that looked almost like concern but read more like manipulation.

We don’t understand why you abandoned us. Christmas was ruined. The kids were asking for you all day. Dad barely ate anything because he was so upset. This was incredibly selfish. We’re all very hurt.

And then, at the bottom, one from Abigail, sent at 11:47 p.m. on Christmas night:

The food you sent was incredible. The instructions were perfect. Everything worked exactly like you said it would. But it wasn’t the same without you.

I stared at that message for a long time.

It wasn’t the same without you.

Translation: We missed having someone to manage everything. We missed having someone to blame when things went wrong. We missed having you absorb our chaos so we could enjoy ourselves.

Or maybe—and this was the thought that made my chest ache—maybe they actually did miss me. Maybe underneath the entitlement and the assumptions, there was genuine love that had gotten buried under years of taking me for granted.

Maybe both things could be true.

I didn’t respond that night. Or the next day. I took my time, let myself settle back into my life, went to the gym, caught up with friends who’d texted “Merry Christmas” without demanding anything in return.

On December 31, I finally composed my response. Not to the group chat. Individual messages to each person, because mass communications let people hide in consensus.

To Mom: I love you. I love our family. But I can’t be the person who makes Christmas work for everyone else while I watch from the sidelines. If you want me there next year, we need to talk about what that looks like. Real conversation, not just assigning me tasks.

To Dad: I’m sorry I disappointed you. But I need you to understand that my time and skills aren’t communal property. I’m happy to contribute to family events, but I’m not willing to be the only person contributing while everyone else shows up.

To Thomas: I adore your kids. But being good with children doesn’t mean I’m the default babysitter. Next year, if you want adult time at dinner, we can all take turns with the kids. Or hire a sitter. But I’m not spending another holiday in a separate room.

To Abigail: I’m glad the food worked out. I’m glad you were able to enjoy your meal. That’s what I wanted—for everyone to have a good Christmas. I just needed to have one too, which I couldn’t do while being responsible for every detail of yours.

And finally, to the family group chat: I love you all. See you for New Year’s brunch?

The responses came slowly, unevenly, each person processing in their own way.

Mom called instead of texting. We talked for an hour. She cried. I cried. She said she hadn’t realized, that she’d just gotten used to me handling things, that she was sorry. I believed about 70% of it, which was better than I’d expected.

Dad sent a two-line text: You’re right. We took advantage. I’m sorry.

From Dad, that was practically a thesis.

Thomas called on New Year’s Eve, slightly drunk, suddenly emotional. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear I didn’t know we’d been doing that to you. Sarah pointed it out—she asked me what I’d contributed to Christmas planning and I couldn’t name one thing. That’s fucked up, Margot. I’m really sorry.”

Abigail showed up at my apartment with coffee and bagels and red eyes. “I’ve been the person at work who gets all the grunt work because I’m good at it,” she said. “I should have recognized I was doing the same thing to you. I’m sorry. Truly.”

We ate bagels and didn’t try to fix everything in one conversation because some things take time to rebuild.

New Year’s brunch was different.

I brought Jason, actually introduced him, watched my family ask him questions about his life instead of just his relationship to me. Thomas brought mimosa ingredients and made drinks. Abigail ordered pastries from the good bakery and remembered to get the almond ones I liked. Mom set the table herself. Dad asked me about my vacation, actually listened to my answer.

The kids tackled me when I arrived, and I played with them for twenty minutes before Sophie asked, “Can we do crafts?”

“Maybe later,” I said. “Right now I want to eat with the grown-ups.”

“Okay!” She ran off without protest, proving what I’d always suspected: children are remarkably adaptable when adults set clear expectations.

It wasn’t perfect. Old habits don’t die in a week. At one point Mom started to ask if I could “maybe coordinate” Easter, caught herself mid-sentence, and rephrased: “Would you be willing to help plan Easter if we all contribute?”

Small shift. Significant difference.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

As we cleaned up—everyone cleaning, not just me—Abigail pulled me aside.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did,” she said. “Taking Christmas for yourself. I thought it was selfish at first. But the more I think about it…” She paused, choosing words carefully. “It was the first time I’ve seen you choose yourself. And it made me realize you shouldn’t have to run away to do that. We should have been making space for you all along.”

I hugged her, surprising both of us.

“Thank you,” I said. “For getting it.”

This Christmas—a full year later—we’re doing things differently.

Mom’s hosting, but we’re all contributing. Thomas is handling the bar and wine. Abigail’s managing the kids’ activities (with input from me, but not my execution). Dad’s in charge of music and ambiance. I’m doing the main course because I love cooking when it’s my choice, not my obligation.

We hired a babysitter for dinner. Her name is Carolina, she’s a early education major, and she’s being paid very well to keep five children entertained for three hours. We’ll all eat together, adults and kids, then Carolina takes over while we clean up and do crafts together afterward.

Jason’s coming. He’s already met everyone multiple times at various gatherings throughout the year—the kind of gatherings where I show up as a guest, not as staff.

And on Christmas Eve, before the chaos starts, Jason and I are spending the night at that same oceanfront resort. Just one night, a tradition we’re starting. Our Christmas, before the family’s Christmas.

Because I learned something last year that I should have learned decades ago: you can love your family and still need boundaries. You can contribute without being consumed. You can be generous without being depleted.

You can be good at making magic and still deserve to experience some yourself.

Last week, Mom called to “go over the schedule.” We talked for thirty minutes, and before we hung up, she said something that made my throat tight:

“Thank you for last year, Margot. For showing us what we’d been doing. We’re better because you were brave enough to choose yourself.”

“We’re better because you were willing to change,” I told her.

Both things were true.

Tonight, I’m wrapping the last few gifts in my dining room—paper still organized by color, system still refined, but the joy returned to the process. Jason’s making dinner. My suitcase for tomorrow is already packed.

My phone rings. It’s Abigail.

“Quick question,” she says. “I’m setting up the craft station and I can’t remember—do the sequins go out for all ages or just eight and up?”

“Eight and up. Choking hazard for Lucas.”

“Right. Okay. Thanks.” She pauses. “And Margot? I’m actually doing this. The craft station. You’re not doing it.”

“I know.”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew. That you knew you could actually rest tomorrow.”

“I know,” I say again, and this time I mean it.

“Okay. Love you. See you tomorrow.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up and look around my apartment. At the life I’ve built. At the boundaries I’ve maintained. At the family I’ve trained to see me as a person, not a resource.

It took running away to make them understand I was serious.

But it was worth it.

Jason appears in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready. And I have a proposal.”

“Another proposal?” I tease. He’d proposed in October, by the ocean, at sunset, with a ring he’d designed himself. The wedding is planned for next fall. I’m hiring a planner.

“More of a tradition proposal,” he says. “What if every year, no matter what, we take Christmas Eve for us? Keep that one night sacred. Start every holiday by choosing each other first.”

I think about the woman I was a year ago. About the binder and the wreath and the feeling that I might finally get to enjoy the holiday I always engineered.

I’d been wrong. That year wasn’t when I got to enjoy it.

That year was when I learned how to ensure I always would.

“Yes,” I tell Jason. “Absolutely yes.”

We eat dinner slowly, no schedule driving us forward. Later, we’ll watch a movie. Later still, we’ll pack the car for tomorrow’s overnight. But right now, we’re just here, just us, just this.

Choosing ourselves first so we have something whole to share.

That’s the gift I gave myself last Christmas.

And I plan to keep giving it, every year, for the rest of my life.

THE END