Advent and the Weight of Expectations

The vibes are on fire

We spent last Saturday dragging bins up from the basement and putting up the Christmas tree. In preparation for this tradition, I expended a not-insignificant amount of energy setting the mood just right.

We got donuts. I lit my favorite evergreen and eucalyptus candle. We made cardamom spiced coffee and curated a Christmas playlist that was festive and Mariah Carey free.

We hung our ornaments, remembering vacations and gifts of years past. The kids placed most of them in a 3 x 2 ft rectangle at the bottom center of the tree, and I tried my darndest not to move them.

Then, we settled down in our slipper feet with our leftover Thanksgiving sandwiches to watch the Ohio State Michigan game. The vibes were IMPECCABLE.

We expected to win.

We lost. In dramatic, embarrassing fashion.

And the vibes were suddenly trash. Everyone was grumpy, and the shiny tree and remnants of red velvet donuts couldn’t seem to touch the foul mood that had descended on the house.

I was frustrated. And not just because of a football game. I had expected a day full of happiness and cheer and steady streams of dopamine, but I realized quickly that all my magic making was just a band aid for a fraying heart, peeling away at the smallest disturbance of my ideal day. I had expected my spirits to lift with each ornament we added to the tree, but instead I felt the dull ache inside me grow, sharpened under the warm light of the tree.

This is AI’s interpretation of “impeccable holiday vibes.” Fire outside the fireplace feels less than ideal, but also somehow fitting for the purposes of this essay.

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I’m often the victim of my own expectations this time of year. I long to give the perfect gifts, wrap presents so lovely they’d make Joanna Gaines cry, and make absurdly happy, idyllic memories with my family. I dream of snowy walks and peaceful, candlelit dinners around the Advent wreath.

In reality, my presents are often wrapped hastily in one feverish late night session, the kiddos are sick or sick of each other, and the tangled mess of Christmas lights spark more frustration than joy.

Despite my best efforts, I find myself heavy with grief, overstimulated, and impatient as I muddle my way from one glittery event to the next.

I find it near impossible to feel the *magic* when so many are quietly suffering, grieving loved ones, a diagnosis, a difficult marriage, the destruction of their homeland, the fear of an unknown future.

The trappings of the holiday feel almost garish in light of all that is broken and hurting around me.

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As this Advent season begins, I’m met with the weight of my own expectations, and I find them too heavy to carry.