Last Christmas, while millions awoke to the obligatory festivities, I lingered in bed until noon savouring the relief that Santa was no longer welcome to visit my home.
There were no smells of turkey wafting through the house nor any chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
And instead of listening to festive songs on endless repeat, I felt myself revelling in the blissful silence.
I hadn’t the faintest idea what my family was up to today, and as I made myself an omelette, I mused over why we hadn’t thought to cancel the holidays long ago.
For years I’d watched mum slaving away behind the scenes to fill mine and my quadruplet brothers’ childhood with all the magic she could muster.
Often that meant a house decorated to the hilt for every conceivable holiday, large gatherings, and an abundance of spending and orchestrating.
I treasure those memories, but when my mum told my brothers and I that she would no longer be celebrating on December 25, I was all for it.
In 2022, Mum converted to Islam and told us she was making lifestyle changes, such as wearing the hijab in public, daily prayers, and dropping religious holidays.
She had been the glue that kept us together during the holiday season, so I immediately questioned the point of celebrating without her. I felt like I didn’t just want to limit abstaining to my family but consciously make it part of my new lifestyle.
Simply put, red and green were not my colours, figuratively or literally. I thought the entire theme of Christmas was cringey.
My brothers and I didn’t agree on much, but this was one of the rare times we mainly saw eye to eye: she was onto something.
One of my brothers, a spiritual Gandhi enthusiast – who stood firm against being owned by material possessions – would no longer have to lecture us on the commercialism of it all.
Not much would change for the sibling who would ‘help’ by binging Netflix on his iPad.
My third brother, a workaholic lawyer who only visited during the holidays, expressed disappointment.
As for me, the one who recognised how much of a toll Mum’s sweat and blood in making it happen was taking, I was all for it.
I grew up watching Mum stress herself silly to execute perfection every season. I saw first hand how much she tried to please everyone, and inevitably snap at any members of our family who threatened the forced-festive atmosphere she had curated.
My brothers and I never once considered getting together without Mum. Interestingly, when I told some friends my family had stopped celebrating Christmas, their first response was to invite me to theirs, as if I’d lost something.
For me, the only thing gone was the pressure to celebrate. I politely declined, unwilling to take on the colourful stress of their families.
Naturally there was some nervousness around missing that initial Christmas. What would happen if December 25 rolled around and the marshmallows weren’t flawlessly toasted on the sweet potato casserole? (One of our traditions.)
Would the world stop if all our greed wasn’t wrapped up immaculately under a Christmas tree adorned with ornaments?
The answer was, nothing happened.
If anything, we all felt more at peace than ever.
Without the feeling of obligation, I also willingly decided to visit Mum to mark our new (lack of) tradition together.
She appeared in the kitchen after finishing a prayer – which she now performed five times a day – and nearly slipped. ‘Merry Chris…I mean, good morning!’ she said. And that was as festive as things got.
To be clear, none of us have converted to Islam with Mum.
But I’ve learned that our bond is strengthened by accepting our differences while finding ways to appreciate our similarities. For example, Mum could no longer sit at a table where alcohol was served, and this worked well for me, an alcoholic.
I can’t speak for my brothers, but they’ve also seemed to embrace being liberated from the enslavement of the national holiday.
The best part, though, was the fact that none of this meant we spent any less quality time together.
Now we’ve discovered we still see each other because we want to, rather than because we have to, without all the nuances and running around town that used to come with it.
December has now become a month of recharging, reflection, and planning for the upcoming year rather than stress, spending and headaches.
If Christmas were truly about expressing love rather than measuring it with a price tag, I’d feel less cynical about it.
But there’s a sense of not being enough that many people can’t escape, whether it’s because you can’t afford Swarovski ornaments or have less presents around your tree compared to another family on social media.
Worse, it’s the ones who work the hardest that get the least in return – the joy of making everyone else happy is something, but is it always enough?
Admittedly, it makes people uncomfortable to imagine someone spending the holidays alone – it’s the same kind of unsolicited pity couples and parents direct at singles or childless adults.
But I see my liberation from religious capitalism as something worth envying, and I would never have acquired it had Mum not led the charge.
Ironically, I can’t imagine how disappointed she would’ve been if I told her I was abandoning the holidays before she converted to Islam.
But as another Christmas approaches, I don’t feel at all like the Grinch.
For everyone who loves it I say go out, celebrate, shop til you drop, and feast until your bellies are jolly. Just don’t expect a ‘Merry Christmas’ from me. Or even a response.
My phone will be on silent and I’ll be checked out of social media until Rudolph sashays away.
As for what I’ll be doing this December 25? Whatever I damn well please.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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