I know it may sound weird to start talking about Christmas when Halloween hasn’t even come up yet. But last night, while my oldest daughter was making dinner, she put on a Christmas station on Pandora—and just like that, I was transported straight into my first Christmas memory.
I must have been maybe five or six. And when I say I “remember” it, I’m not 100% sure if it’s a real memory or something I pieced together from old photos—but it feels real. Someone dressed as Santa Claus came to our house. To this day I don’t know if it was my dad, a friend of his, or someone my parents hired—but “Santa” showed up. And to my absolute shock, I got a G.I. Joe dressed in full camouflage, plus a yellow helicopter and a Jeep with some kind of weapon mounted in the back. This was the early 80s, so getting war-themed toys was totally normal. That’s the first Christmas I can truly recall.
Then… nothing. I don’t remember any other Christmases until I turned ten—the year I decided I was going to catch Santa Claus in the act. I was already pretty sure Santa was just my dad in disguise, and I wanted proof. That year I told my parents I was going to my friend’s house down the street, but instead, I snuck back inside and hid under the couch. I figured I’d wait until everyone thought I was gone, then jump out and catch Santa red-handed. Genius plan… except I fell asleep. About an hour later I crawled out, pretending I had “just gotten home,” only to find gifts already under the tree. Foiled again.
Fast forward to when I was about 15 or 16. That Christmas wasn’t magical at all. Money was very tight at home. We spent Christmas Eve at one of my uncle’s houses—his place was huge, beautifully decorated, Christmas tree, lights, mountains of gifts under the tree. When it came time to open presents at midnight, my cousins tore into video games and expensive toys. When it was my turn, I opened my gifts: three identical pairs of red shorts. The kind you wear for gym class.
That was it. Three shorts. Meanwhile, my cousins were swimming in presents. I remember sitting there, trying not to let it bother me, pretending it was all fine. But it stung. Not because I was ungrateful, but because I could see the look in my parents’ eyes. They did everything they could for us, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t get themselves anything for Christmas that year.
A year or two later, I moved to the United States. My first Christmas in New Jersey changed everything. Suddenly there was a decorated tree, Christmas music playing on the stereo, tons of food, cards on the fireplace—and gifts everywhere. I got a video game, a Chicago Bulls winter jacket, a pair of Air Jordans (which at 16 basically made you a king), and more. It was like stepping into a movie. A miracle compared to the Christmases I grew up with.
As my sisters and I got older and built our own families, we kind of overcorrected. Every Christmas, we would flood our kids and each other with gifts, maybe trying to reclaim what we missed growing up. But after I got married, my wife helped me rethink that. For her, Christmas has always been about family, tradition, and time together—not how much stuff is under the tree. And over time, I came to agree.
These days, I get emotional around Christmas—not sad, just sentimental. I love the quiet moments, being with my family, cooking, laughing, telling stories. I still enjoy watching my daughters open a gift they weren’t expecting, that moment of pure joy on their faces—that will never get old. But I now believe Christmas is about gratitude more than anything else.
And here’s the funny part: every time I hear Christmas music—even in October—it makes me happy. I don’t know what switch it flips in my brain, but hearing those songs reminds me of everything that matters. My family. My parents still being here. My daughters healthy. Food on the table. A roof over our heads. Love in the room. That’s it. That’s enough.
So yeah, Halloween isn’t even here yet. But my daughter turned on Christmas music last night—and for a moment, everything felt right in the world. And I was grateful.
Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash