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| Artcard by Marlney Causing |
I was a child.
Happily running around the hallways of my grandmother’s house, too eager to open my presents, and too excited to spend Christmas with my cousins. The adults were busy setting the food on the table while we, the kids, were too busy shaking the boxes of gifts under the tree, trying to guess what it was our parents got for us.
“Bakit kaya mas masaya ang pasko kapag bata ka?”
“Para sa mga bata lang naman talaga ang pasko…”
I could hear them over my cousins’ high-pitched shrieks as they excitedly ran their hands over the wrapping paper, imagining what toys were waiting inside. I could hear my uncles and aunts reminiscing about the days they had when they were still children too. I didn’t care at the time. Christmas Eve at home with just my mom and dad was joyful enough. But getting to spend it together with the extended family provided me with a different kind of warmth that I don’t often experience as an only child.
“Bakit mo binuksan agad!”
One cousin was scolded for tearing through the wrapping of her gift out of excitement. And just like an inevitable avalanche that rolls in once that first slab of snow falls, the rest of us followed. Wrapping paper was now all over the floor, the laughter got louder, and the house felt fuller.
My parents’ laughs and my uncles’ “ayyys” filled the room. Back then, I couldn’t quite comprehend. Why would Christmas only be for kids? But before I could fully grasp that thought, I was brought back to the present by a new collection of Littlest Pet Shop peeking through the candy canes printed on paper.
I had little to no problems back then.
Now, my main problem is how to quickly assemble this Christmas tree in under five minutes.
It’s not like I hated Christmas. It’s my favorite time of the year, actually. It’s just that I find it difficult to indulge in all the holiday cheer when the academic requirements on my to-do list pile up faster than I could hang all the ornaments on this goddamn tree.
Suddenly, December feels like a marathon I didn’t sign up for. Everyone is in a rush with only one of these goals in mind: surviving finals week, tolerating heavy workloads to receive their Christmas bonus, or finishing errands before the streets become unbearably crowded. The days disappear faster than I can keep track of—before all the joy and cheer can even settle in. I blink, and suddenly it’s already the third week, and I haven’t even bought any of the gifts I planned, let alone finish the backlogs I have long intended to cross out.
But if you look outside—in the malls and out on the streets—it’s not like the people forgot about Christmas. The parols still hang, lighting up the streets at night. The music still blares from the neighbor’s speakers, and the advertisements are insistent as ever. Yet somehow, the joy feels quieter. Not gone, just hidden. Come to think of it, not once have I heard of Jose Mari Chan, and it’s already the third week of December. All the cheers are subdued by things that adult life holds us accountable for. Watered down by the constant rush of life, by the pressure that pulls us to be busy even when the world tells us it’s time to celebrate.
As we grow up, December becomes less of a season and more of a finishing line—a month caught up in a blur of deadlines, obligations, and the anticipation of being freed from it all. And maybe that’s why this last month always feels shorter and shorter each year.
The December I remember as a child stretched endlessly. Time didn’t seem to rush me when I spent most of my nights caroling with friends, when I went shopping for new outfits with my mom, and even when I stayed up late watching Christmas films on a school night.
Now, it all feels too compressed. The holiday spirit is still there, but I can only experience it in fragments: a long and quiet walk back to my dorm after a whole day at school, a brief laugh with a friend, or a short pause to admire the Christmas lights in front of the school’s main building.
And yet, there is still this bittersweet beauty in this shift in time. Compared to the long Decembers we’ve had as children, these small moments of wonder as adults become more precious to us because they are fleeting. Because, despite it being shorter, hurried, and compressed, joy can still be found even if it’s quieter than we remember, as long as we are willing to notice it.
And so, as I put the star on top of our Christmas tree like I always did as a child, I take a moment to pause. When have I become taller than this goddamn tree? I remember what my uncles back then said. About Christmas only being for kids? They’re wrong. Maybe, Christmas isn’t just for children—it’s for anyone who remembers to pause, feel, and believe in the moments of wonder, no matter how fleeting it is.
