BY ELOISE STARK
I am 7 years old, and the whole living room smells of pine trees. Crisp, foresty, slightly sweet. It feels like trees too, because the needles are everywhere — in the sofa cushions, in my socks, all over the dogs.
The log burner casts a soft orange glow around the room, echoed by flickering candles, making me feel safe and warm. We’ve turned the lights off to read Christmas books — not the most convenient choice, but it feels magical.
My sisters and I start to sing carols in silly voices, giggling uncontrollably, until Dad threatens to send us to bed unless we sing “properly.” We switch back to our off-key but earnest tones.
Then it is time to hang up the stockings, to place a tray of food out for Santa Claus. Beer, mince pie, and a carrot for Rudolph. (Reindeers like ritual, too.)
As a neurodivergent kid, I was obsessed with our holiday traditions. I liked knowing what to expect and what would happen when. This is a common experience for neurospicy people. We tend to struggle to regulate our emotions, especially when we face a break in the routine or sensory overload. The holidays are exactly that: noise and excitement, visiting relatives, and the stress of giving and receiving gifts.
During those times, rituals and routines help ground us. They make us feel less anxious and more able to predict what is going to happen — which leaves us free to actually enjoy it.
In my case, the codified holiday joy was far less frightening than an unstructured celebration would be. The anticipation I felt for all our traditions was almost as good as the events themselves.
I was the youngest in the family, and the most adamant about doing our rituals properly. It felt like things might unravel if we didn’t — like Christmas might lose its magic and sweep me away in a wave of overstimulating chaos. Rituals anchored me.
Rather than the holidays being overwhelming, they felt like stepping into a photograph, coming face-to-face with old friends.
And I clung to those friends: the orange glow, the spikey socks, the dog-eared stories. Outside of the holidays, people thought I was weird for having rituals, like watching episodes of Lost on repeat while doing my homework or lining up my Beanie Babies just so.
But at Christmas, that sort of ritual is allowed, even celebrated.
Lights and TV schedules and Mariah Carey collude to remind you it is Christmas, and Christmas is a time for repetition.
That’s why it freaked me out so much when I found out that not everyone celebrates Christmas the same way. We moved to France from the UK when I was 10, and everything got turned upside down. My classmates celebrated Christmas on the 24th of December, with a long meal that included foie gras and scallops, and no turkey in sight. They didn’t sing Christmas carols, and they had never seen Home Alone, not once.
This was too much for me. They already spoke a strange language and had no idea how to use WordArt in Microsoft Word. The fact that they did Christmas wrong was the last straw.
At the time, I did not understand why it was so threatening to me, but now I realize that those Christmas rituals provided me with an anchor, a predetermined and signposted way to experience joy. Without these rituals, I felt overwhelmed. Outside, I was obliged to be happy, but inside, I was anxious about the noise, the new people, the social expectations, and sensory chaos.
I learned that while our traditions grew and changed, they still kept me grounded. Our teen holidays were marked by chaotic attempts at crafting and baking. Our gingerbread house collapsed, our pomanders went moldy, and our truffles were confiscated for containing too much mint liquor. The familiarity of spending time with my sisters, at home, giggling over some misguided project, gave me a safe way to be present and joyful.
Now, my nieces and nephews are adding their own touches to our Christmas rituals. My oldest nephew is a quiet, thoughtful 5-year-old with an attention span longer than mine. Every Christmas Eve, he leaves a bowl of water out for the reindeer, because, “Well, they can’t drink from Santa’s beer bottle, can they?” The next morning, he opens each new present slowly, methodically, and spends 20 minutes playing with it. He assigns himself the role of gift distributor, handing out presents one by one, to maintain control of the proceedings.
Watching him, I see the same quiet intensity in myself. The same reverence for ritual, the same need for small, repeated joys. I know how he feels. And I know that rituals will teach him how to regulate, long after Christmas has faded away.
Because for some of us, these little habits we repeat every year are even more magical than Santa Claus.
BIO: Eloise Stark is a freelance journalist who covers mental health and travel. She also runs the adventure travel blog, Shortcuts and Side Quests.
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