Christmas films all have the same shape.
You know the one: Conflict rises; Family fractures; Someone makes a mistake, learns a lesson, crosses a snowy street at the last moment. Then: hugs, tears of joy, a swelling score. Roll credits.
This shape is my problem.
When I watch these films, my empathy drags me through every beat. I feel the tension, heartbreak and hope. But when the final scene arrives - when the characters get their moment of pure, earned happiness - I don't land with them. I just cry.
Not happy tears. Sad ones. Because I can't match what they're feeling. Because the distance between their joy and my actual emotional state becomes tangible, and it breaks something in me.
Christmas itself fits the same shape as these films. Anticipation builds through December, peaks on the 25th, resolves in warmth and connection. We're all supposed to hit our marks.
I miss my marks constantly.
The shops
The anxiety starts before I even leave the house. I remember what December shopping feels like - the crushing crowds, the heat, everyone scurrying with the same low-grade panic. The memory is enough. I order online. I delay. I avoid.
This isn't laziness. It's anticipatory dread. My brain has learned that certain places, at certain times, feel unbearable. So it protects me by making me not want to go.
The parties
Two weeks ago: a friend's birthday. I went, had a brilliant time, felt genuinely happy to be there.
One week ago: another party. I couldn't go. Nothing was wrong, exactly. I just wasn't in the right frame of mind, and I knew I'd have to fake it.
I might have enjoyed myself if I'd pushed through. But that's not the point. The point is the performance. The obligation to manufacture an emotion I don't have access to. The exhaustion of pretending.
Christmas demands this performance for an entire month.
The gap
NHS research shows around a third of people report worsened mental health during the festive season, with one in six adults experiencing depression[1]. These numbers tell me that I'm not unusual; what I feel, many other people feel.
But the cultural narrative doesn't allow for this. Christmas is "the most wonderful time of the year." If you're not feeling wonderful, something must be wrong with you.
Nothing is wrong with me. I just can't fit the shape.
The films end with everyone glowing. The season ends with everyone celebrating. And I'm left in the gap between expectation and reality, wondering why I can't land where I'm supposed to land.
I don't hate Christmas - I hate that it has a shape I can't fit into. The assumption that everyone can access the same feelings on the same schedule. The exhaustion of pretending, when I can't summon what's expected of me.
December asks, "Are you happy?"
Some years, I can answer, "yes". Other years, the honest answer is: "I'm trying. Please stop asking."
If this sounds familiar, you are not broken. You're just shaped differently - and there are more of us than the films would have you believe.
Reference
[1] NHS England, "Christmas: a time of joy, happiness and goodwill to all"
