Christmas, Privilege, and the Discomfort of Opting Out

Christmas in the U.S. isn’t about religion — and barely about family.
There. I said it.

I’m sure that will annoy some people, and that’s okay. Before anyone sharpens their pitchforks, let me be clear: this isn’t a condemnation of people who love Christmas, who thrive in family gatherings, or who find genuine comfort in tradition. Plenty of people do — and that’s valid. This is simply my experience, my discomfort, and what becomes impossible not to notice when you step outside the cultural bubble you grew up in.

I haven’t been religious for a long time — if I’m being honest, I never really was. Religion was something imposed more than chosen. My mom was adamant that I complete my First Communion and Confirmation so that one day I could get married in a Catholic church.
A fun sidebar: my first marriage took place barefoot on a beach in Mexico, officiated by a man who didn’t speak English and offered no prayers, blessings, or benedictions during our ten-minute ceremony. I then proceeded to get divorced… twice. Pretty sure the Catholic Church and I are good not reconnecting — and I’m perfectly fine with that.

But this isn’t a faith-based rant. It’s an observation about how Christmas is framed in the U.S.

Be home with family.
It doesn’t matter that your family lives across the country or that flights triple in price. You’re expected to go — even if it means debt — to return to the same small town you couldn’t wait to escape. (Maybe that’s just me, but I doubt it.)

Be happy.
No matter what’s actually happening in your life, Christmas demands cheer. You’re expected to plaster on a smile and temporarily ignore family dynamics you’ve spent the rest of the year trying to untangle.

Be grateful.
You got a few days off, didn’t you? Maybe a bonus? Or at least a half-hearted office party complete with lukewarm food and forced small talk? Smile. Be thankful.

Be surrounded by people.
The more, the better. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know them or actively dislike half of them — just don’t be alone.

What I’ve noticed — and what’s always unsettled me — is how deeply uncomfortable it makes people when you opt out of some or all of this.

What Christmas Looks Like Here

In Guatemala, Christmas is exactly what it claims to be about.

Weeks before Christmas, Guatemalans participate in La Quema del Diablo — a ritual meant to purge negativity and evil spirits to make space for the holiday ahead.

Instead of Christmas trees stealing the spotlight, nativity scenes take center stage. Throughout December, posadas fill the streets — processions reenacting Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter. Each night, a different household plays host, offering tamales and ponche to the community.

My Spanish school hosted a posada. We walked for hours through the streets, singing, carrying a replica of Mary and Joseph while traffic stopped and strangers joined in. We ended back at the school — sixty of us packed together, sharing tamales, ponche, and laughter. It was joyful, communal, and deeply rooted in tradition — not performance.

Christmas Eve (Nochebuena) is the main event. Families attend La Misa de Gallo at midnight, followed by tamales, marimba music, and fireworks that seem to last until sunrise.

Christmas Day?
Just another day.

Faith here isn’t seasonal. People don’t suddenly become religious in December. Mass isn’t a holiday checkbox. Processions don’t exist for Instagram. Whether you agree with it or not, it’s consistent — and that consistency is striking.

What We’ve Turned Christmas Into

Back home, Christmas has become an industry.

Gifts aren’t generosity — they’re obligation.
Decorations aren’t joy — they’re competition.
“Holiday spirit” often feels like consumer guilt wrapped in twinkle lights.

We’ve replaced meaning with stuff and labeled it tradition — then act surprised when people feel exhausted, broke, and resentful.

The Lie About Being Alone

Choosing to be alone on Christmas is treated like a tragedy.

If you’re not in matching pajamas with someone — anyone — something must be wrong. No one asks if you’re peaceful; they assume you’re lonely. Decline invitations or traditions and you’re met with pity. I’ve lost count of the sympathetic looks I’ve received when saying I wasn’t going “home” for Christmas — even though I actually like my family (well, most of them).

I enjoy Christmas lights. I like the smell of fresh-cut trees. I genuinely love Paul McCartney’s Wonderful Christmastime. But despite how it’s framed, Christmas is still just another day.

And choosing to spend it quietly doesn’t mean something is missing.

This year I spent Christmas on a beach in Guatemala, eating Salvadorian pupusas and barely talking to anyone. Last year and the few years prior- I’d spend every Christmas morning enjoying a quiet walk around the lake while the rest of the city was seemingly sleeping- then I’d cook myself a prime rib and enjoy it all by myself. It was a choice, not a punishment.

A Different Kind of Grace

This isn’t about rejecting joy, family, or tradition. It’s about questioning why there’s only one acceptable way to experience this day — and why anything outside of that is treated as sad, wrong, or broken.

Some people need togetherness.
Some people need quiet.
Some people find meaning in faith; others find it in rest.

None of those choices should require justification.

So the next time someone tells you they’re spending Christmas alone, don’t offer sympathy. Tell them to enjoy the quiet. For some of us, that’s the greatest gift there is.

-A