I don’t usually write posts like this.
My words are usually led by photographs, by places, by movement and light. I tend to tell stories through images, through roads taken and moments captured somewhere between departure and arrival.
But every year, as Christmas approaches, I feel the need to put the camera down for a moment and sit with my thoughts.
Christmas has always been my favorite and warmest holiday. And maybe that’s exactly why it has a way of pulling certain reflections to the surface—ones I don’t often share here, but felt important to write about this time.
Every year, almost without realizing it, we fall into the same rhythm. Shops fill up, windows sparkle, advertisements become louder, all reminding us of what we should buy, how much we should spend, and what a “perfect” Christmas is supposed to look like. Somewhere along the way, it feels as if Christmas became something measurable—by the number of gifts under the tree, by price tags, by appearances.
And I often find myself wondering: when did the wrapping become more important than what’s inside?
I don’t say this as someone who rejects gifts or traditions. I love giving presents. I love seeing someone smile when they unwrap something chosen with care. But it also feels like we’ve slowly lost balance. Like the quiet meaning of Christmas has been buried under expectations, noise, and comparison.
Because while some people worry about decorations and dinner tables, others are spending Christmas in silence.
There are people for whom Christmas doesn’t smell like cookies and pine trees, but like loneliness. People who don’t have anyone to sit next to at the table—or no table at all. Elderly people whose days pass slowly, waiting for a phone call that may never come. Single parents doing everything they can to create a sense of magic for their children while carrying exhaustion, responsibility, and quiet fear on their own shoulders.
There are also those who are surrounded by people and still feel deeply alone. A full room, familiar faces, laughter in the background—and yet a sense of emptiness that no noise can fill. I’ve learned that loneliness doesn’t always come from being alone.
Christmas has a strange way of amplifying emotions. It highlights what we have, but also what we’ve lost. It reminds us of people who are no longer here, of relationships that slowly drifted apart, of empty chairs no one mentions but everyone feels.
And while Christmas is often described as a season of joy, I believe it’s also a season of honesty.
It’s okay if this time of year feels heavy. It’s okay if happiness isn’t constant. We don’t have to perform joy just because the calendar tells us to. There is something deeply human about allowing ourselves to feel everything at once—gratitude, sadness, nostalgia, hope.
Because Christmas isn’t just a single day.
It’s not only a dinner, a tree, or a collection of photos that will eventually disappear into a feed. Christmas is a feeling. It lives in moments that rarely get posted. In forgiveness offered quietly. In a message sent to someone you haven’t spoken to in a while. In a phone call that starts with, “I was just thinking about you.”
Sometimes, that is the most meaningful gift of all.
There is a quiet beauty in simplicity. In a warm cup of tea while the world slows down. In the soft glow of lights that don’t just brighten a room, but make it feel like home. In familiar smells that take us back to childhood, to a time when worries felt distant and life seemed lighter.
Christmas also reminds us of togetherness—but not the perfect, cinematic version of it. Real togetherness is imperfect. It exists in families with complicated histories, in conversations that aren’t always easy, in relationships that require patience and understanding. Sometimes we spend Christmas with those we are related to, and sometimes with those we have chosen as family. Both matter. Both are real.
I also think of those who work through the holidays. Nurses, doctors, firefighters, police officers, drivers, waiters—people who keep the world moving while others celebrate. Their Christmas looks different. Quieter. Shorter. Often unseen. And maybe this season is also about noticing them, appreciating them, and remembering that kindness travels further than we expect.
In a world that constantly asks for more—more productivity, more perfection, more speed—Christmas gently asks us to slow down. To be present. To listen. To remember that sometimes, simply being there is enough.
We may not be able to give everyone a gift. We may not have a perfectly decorated home or a table filled with everything we imagined. But we can give time. Attention. Compassion. Warmth. These are gifts that don’t require money, yet often mean the most.
This Christmas, I want to believe that its true meaning still lives in the quiet spaces. In shared silence. In kind words. In moments that ask for nothing in return. I want to believe that Christmas hasn’t lost its soul—we’ve just buried it under expectations and noise.
And if you’re reading this and feeling alone, please know this: you are not invisible.
If this season is difficult for you, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
If Christmas brings memories that hurt, that doesn’t make you weak.
Allow yourself to feel what you feel—but also allow yourself to hope.
Because even on the shortest, darkest days of the year, the light always returns.
So this is my small Christmas wish—for you, and for all of us.
May you find peace, especially the quiet kind that settles inside.
May you find people with whom you can be fully yourself.
May you find warmth in simple moments and beauty in small things.
And may you remember that sometimes, simply being is more than enough.
And this is Kali — my little reminder that warmth often comes in the quietest forms.
She wishes you a gentle, peaceful Christmas, filled with small moments that feel like home 🤍
Merry Christmas 🤍