A Decade of Decidedly Different Christmas Days

25 December—a date etched into the rhythm of my life. Christmas Day! Santa! Presents! Yummy food and drink! Family and friends! Almost all of my Christmases have contained these ingredients, and what a gift that has been. I am profoundly grateful.

I don’t remember my earliest Christmases in late 1960s Kent or early 1970s South Wales. But from 1973 onwards, when we moved to Brussels from Swansea, as Britain joined the European Economic Community, Christmas took on a new shape. Oddly enough, we never spent that time in Brussels. Each year, we’d drive back to the UK to celebrate with our relatives, first in the Midlands with Dad’s family, then on to West Yorkshire for Mum’s. Seven Pearsons packed into a VW van, crossing the Channel by ferry, playing “I spy” and bickering, quieted only by the occasional boiled sweet. Those were formative, fratchy, and anticipation-filled journeys.

By my late teens, Christmases moved to my mum’s new-old tiny miner’s cottage in the Lake District—a space barely big enough for five, let alone the seven of us and, later, partners and spouses. Somehow, we managed, the cosiness adding to the specialness.

The last UK Christmas Mike and I shared was in 1998, midway through my pregnancy with Ben. I didn’t know it would be the final one, but life has a way of quietly marking such thresholds, noticed only later. Since then, apart from two Swiss interlopers, all my Christmases have been in France, “in the house that Mike built”—24 of them now.

The early years were busy and bustling:

One baby.
Pregnant again.
Two babies.
Still two babies.
Pregnant again again.
Three babies.

And then, for many years, three growing kids, au pairs, family, friends, and the odd “waif and stray” filling the table with joy, noise, and multiple dinner sittings.

For decades, Christmases had a rhythm—a pattern. But a decade ago, that changed abruptly. Nine years and ten Christmases ago, 2015 struck like an axe. Edward’s final days in the hospice shaped that new season; we ate Christmas dinner there, together but anxious. The following year, Mike was in bed with chemo, and I tried to step into his shoes as chef. It was hard—desperately hard. The next Christmas, I burst into tears as I served a full table while missing him, the vegetables tepid, my heart shattered.

The years that followed saw grief compound grief. Julia spiralling, terrifyingly so. Medjool entering my life—brave enough to join a chaotic and emotional Christmas, utterly baffled by our English fare and my insistence on keeping up with traditions. Those years blurred into a mix of zoning out and barely holding on. Finding ways of just getting through the day.

Until this year. I feel Present. Peaceful. Content. Finally.

Standards have lowered, intentionally so.
The menu is simpler.
The guest list smaller.
This year, it’s just the three of us—Ben, Megan, and me, plus Black and Silver snoring gently in the background.

So what endures, still?

A Christmas Day run with Black, his ageing body still capable of a gentle jog. That we both age and slow down together suits me fine.
Champagne outside before the meal, a family selfie easily managed with just three of us.
Delicious vegetables, a crackling fire, and text messages connecting us to loved ones near and far.
A pretty Christmas tree.

I buy the Christmas tree and others decorate it. That’s the deal. It feels fair to me.

And what’s new this time?

Ben’s fleeting 72-hour visit—grateful he made it amid his two new jobs.
No turkey, a first, with an entirely vegetarian meal: parsnip gratin dauphinois, roasted rainbow carrots, and a departure from our 20-year tradition of bûche glacée chocolat parfait.
Conversations among siblings, navigating how best to support our ageing parents.
Numerous messages from friends about health issues—a sharp reminder of life’s fragility.
And most notably—a sense of peace and ease, precious and rare, that I am holding lightly, knowing it may not last.

This Christmas has been “good enough.” Calm. Peaceful. Easy.

So grateful to have these beauties in my life, still breathing.

The chaotic joy of years gone by feels like a thing of the past, and that’s okay. How lucky I’ve been to have decades of warm, noisy, boisterous Christmases. Many people face challenging holidays for countless reasons, and I don’t take my good fortune for granted.

As 2024 winds down, I am filled with gratitude: for my health, my grown children still wanting to come home now and then, Mum and Dad still with us, Medjool’s deep and steady love, the work that nourishes me, friendships, and the simple joys of my life here—clean air, magnificent scenery, good food, music, movement, and the four-legged creatures who accompany my days.

Looking ahead to 2025, I hope for continued health, meaningful work, and opportunities for my kids as they step into their futures. For the world, I wish for clean air and water, thriving ecosystems, and a deeper appreciation for life’s preciousness.

I hold the gifts of those earlier Christmases with me, even as I lean into the quieter, simpler rhythm of today.

May 2025 bring spaciousness, joy, peace, and love to us all.

Christmas Day gentle jog with Black the dog

And a Christmas Eve Cross-Country Ski – up in the Jura, here looking towards the Mont Blanc.