Every year—every single year—I watch otherwise sensible people rip down their Christmas tree on December 26 like it personally offended them overnight. Lights yanked. Ornaments boxed. Pine needles swept away with the grim efficiency of a Victorian governess. By December 27, the house looks like February—but colder and meaner.
And then—how strange!—those same people feel flat, tired, unmotivated, vaguely sad, and inexplicably angry at soup… for weeks. The symbols that signified hope and peace are gone, but hey!—at least the living room is clean.
Let me say this plainly, but firmly:
You didn’t “move on.” You emotionally cliff-dived.
Humans are not light switches. We are simmering stews. When you remove warmth, glow, ritual, and beauty overnight, the nervous system notices—especially after you’ve already given the adrenals a seasonal marathon. The psyche notices. And the ancient animal part of you that survived winter by firelight and storytelling absolutely notices.
Christmas lights are not just décor. They are artificial suns.
Trees are not just trees. They are symbols of life surviving darkness.
Ritual is not fluff. It is how the soul marks time without panicking.
So when you yank all of that away on December 26, your inner self goes,
“Ah. Winter has won. Good luck with that.”
Cue the slump.
January is already dark. Already cold. Already asking too much of us, after December, which sucked us dry. Why on earth would you strip away the last gentle comforts the moment the calendar flips?
This is why our ancestors had the Twelve Days of Christmas, Yule lasting well into January, and candle festivals generously scattered through the bleak weeks. They understood something modern productivity culture has forgotten:
You don’t rush grief, rest, or transition. You ease them.
The tree is not a deadline.
The lights are not a moral failure.
Joy does not expire at midnight on the 25th.
Keeping your tree up until New Year’s—or even mid-January—isn’t laziness. It’s nervous-system literacy. It’s seasonal intelligence. It’s saying, “I see you, winter, and I will not face you without backup lighting.”
If you took everything down early and now feel oddly hollow, congratulations—you’re not broken. You’re responding exactly as a mammal does when warmth vanishes too fast. Seeking comfort under blankets and in warm drinks is not weakness. It’s biology.
For this year: light candles—real or LED—and breathe in their warmth. Let them feed you. Let them restore you.
And next year, try this instead:
Let the lights linger.
Let the tree fade gently.
Let the glow escort you into winter rather than shove you into it.
A Personal Note, Because Evidence Matters
It’s January 9 now—three days past the Twelve Days of Christmas. My favourite coffee shop took down its tree and festive glitter yesterday, and the place feels… quieter. A little sadder.
Meanwhile, at home, my tree is still up.sd
This was my first real tree in years, and I am loath to let it go. It’s just beginning to show the stress of being removed from its natural environment, but there is something deeply comforting about staggering into the living room each morning and being greeted by the gentle glow of its lights. Part of me is quietly proud that I’ve kept it happy for six weeks.
If you’ve read any of my work, you already know this about me: I am unapologetically pro-light. Candles. Electric. LED. Especially with what’s happening in the world these days—we need more of it.
When I do take the tree down (probably next weekend), I plan to drape the lights around the apartment so the light continues. Because I am not done with winter yet, and winter is certainly not done with me.
The darkest months of the year don’t need more discipline.
They need softness—with boundaries.
And yes. I will die on this twinkly, pine-scented hill. Keep the lights lit.