A.S. Thorne

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, the holidays stopped feeling like magic and started feeling like…a seasonal exam no one studied for.

When we were kids, the lights glowed brighter.
Time felt syrup-slow.
Every room held some kind of wonder—cookies, mysteries, whispered traditions that tasted like forever.

But adulthood?
Oh, adulthood took one look at that cozy joy and said:

“That’s cute. Now juggle sixteen schedules, dodge family drama, spend money you don’t have, and smile like you’re in a Hallmark movie.”

It’s the Thanksgiving logistics that feel like a hostage negotiation… and the December ones waiting right behind them, sharpening their knives.

It’s the endless decisions:
Which house? Which parent? Which in-law?
How do I say no without sparking a generational feud?
Why are all events magically scheduled for the exact same hour, as if the calendar gods are testing me?
And why is the expectation always that I must appear like some kind of festive shapeshifter with infinite energy?

It’s the unspoken emotional calculus you do in your head:
Who’ll be offended?
Who’ll be fine?
Who’ll bring up something awkward after two glasses of wine?
Who’ll whisper, “We never see you anymore,” like guilt disguised as nostalgia?

It’s the gifts, the budgets, the travel, the performance of tradition.
The pressure to conjure joy on command is daunting. It’s like a reluctant witch with low energy whispering softly, “I have not the energy nor brain power for this,” under her breath.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, the magic we once adored slips through our fingers like stray glitter.
Beautiful.
But impossible to hold.

So here’s the honest truth — the one no one writes on greeting cards:

You’re allowed to opt out of the performance.
You’re allowed to bring back the magic in your own way, or not bring it back at all.
You’re allowed to do the holidays like a grown-up who is tired, overwhelmed, and honestly…fresh outta f***s for the parts that drain you.

Because here’s the thing:

Magic doesn’t disappear.
It just hides in quieter places once we’re older.

It lingers in the soft rebellion of choosing one visit instead of four.
In lighting a candle and calling that your whole celebration.
In eating pie for breakfast because no one can stop you now.
In choosing peace over tradition.
In taking an honest breath in the middle of December chaos and saying,
“Yeah, no…not doing all that this year.”

Magic grows up with us.
It becomes less sparkle, more survival.
Less tinsel, more truth.
Less noise, more meaning.

If this week already feels heavy—and the rest of the season is looming like a beautifully decorated storm cloud—you’re not broken.
You’re human.
And maybe the most magical thing you can do is carve out a corner of the season that’s yours alone—
dark, cozy, imperfect, and beautifully free of expectations.

A heart light, not a spotlight.
A moment, not a marathon.
A breath, not a performance.

The child in you chased wonder.
The adult in your deserves rest.

And honestly?
That’s a kind of magic all its own.

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Author Reflection

When I wrote this, I wasn’t trying to be profound.
I was just trying to be honest.

The holidays have a way of tugging at all our loose threads — the expectations, the family dynamics, the old wounds, the quiet longing for something simple that adulthood keeps stealing from us. And if I’m being real, I think a lot of us are carrying that weight silently, pretending we’re fine while we mentally negotiate how many houses we can survive in a 24-hour period.

This piece is a reminder (to you, to me, to the part of us still trying so hard):
You’re allowed to show up as you are.
You’re allowed to step back.
You’re allowed to set boundaries without guilt gnawing at you like a starved little holiday gremlin.

No one tells grown-ups this, so let me:
You don’t owe your joy to anyone.
And you’re not failing the season because you’re tired.

We’re all just doing our best in the loudest, shiniest month of the year.

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If this resonated with you, pass it along to another tired adult balancing seventeen holiday obligations and running on the emotional equivalent of cold coffee.

Let’s normalize a new tradition:
Choosing sanity over spectacle.

Because honestly?
Peace is the best present we’re getting this year.

— A.S. Thorne 🖤