Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s December 25.

Call it Christmas, Saturnalia, Sol Invictus, Festivus, or just that day in December when the stores are finally closed and no one expects anything from you anymore. The labels are flexible; the exhaustion is universal.

This is the day when months of manic planning—decorations, travel logistics, gift anxiety, and the annual debate over whether candles near dry pine trees are “festive” or “reckless”—are mercifully over. The calendar exhales. The credit cards whimper. The wrapping paper begins its slow migration to landfills, where it will join the ghosts of resolutions past.

Now begins the quiet, liminal week before the New Year: the societal pause where no one knows what day it is, emails feel optional, and time itself seems to be held together by leftover pie. This is when we reflect. We look back on the year and decide whether it was good, bad, or just aggressively there. We tally our wins, our losses, and our ability to survive all of it without screaming in a Target parking lot.

Soon, we’ll make promises. Grand ones. Meaningful ones. Promises about health, patience, budgets, boundaries, and maybe learning Italian for reasons that remain unclear. We will mean them sincerely—for about three weeks. And that’s okay. The ritual isn’t about success; it’s about hope, or at least optimism with a short attention span.

Whatever you celebrate—or don’t—the truth remains: the calendar keeps turning. The planet keeps spinning. History keeps lurching forward, sometimes gracefully, sometimes like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Even with the mango-hued menace currently haunting the White House, this too shall pass. Empires wobble, headlines fade, and eventually, even the loudest ego becomes a footnote.

So call today whatever you like. Celebrate, rest, reflect, or ignore it entirely. Tomorrow will come regardless. And somehow—against all evidence—we’ll still be here, making it through, one December at a time.