Letters to Viv: You Don’t Need to Be Merry to Be Meaningful
My first solo holiday season, lived honestly, quietly, and on my own terms.
Letters to Viv
Open, soul-packed letters to the kind of human I write for: the curious, creative, exhausted by the hustle, and craving something more. I’m writing to you (and me).
Dear Viv,
This is my first proper holiday season on my own.
Divorced. Fully stamped. No footnotes.
Last year was a write-off, separation purgatory. December carried on in the background while I stared at the walls and drank tea like it was my job. No performance review. No bonuses. Just me and the pain.
This year feels different. Slightly surreal. Also quietly magical, which caught me off guard, if I’m honest. I wasn’t expecting magic. I was expecting to get through it with minimal fuss and the odd tear to Nat King Cole’s version of The Christmas Song (my favourite Christmas song by the way).
I noticed it walking the other night. Houses lit up like they’d joined a competitive league. Full commitment. No subtlety. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t spiral. I smiled. Then I immediately side-eyed myself like, settle down now, don’t get notions.
The smile stayed anyway.
I’m doing the holidays without performing them. No forced cheer. No pretending I’m fine when I’m not. Also, no dragging heartbreak around like a party trick. Both are exhausting, and I’ve retired from emotional labour I didn’t apply for.
Some moments land softly, while some still sting a bit.
Most are fine. Genuinely fine. Which, at this stage, feels like a small miracle, and I’ll take it.
The joy shows up small and specific. A good matcha latte. Laughing at something foolish. Sitting alone in the evening and realizing the quiet isn’t lonely, it’s peaceful. No background tension. No waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just quiet. Actual quiet.
The emotional roller coaster hasn’t vanished. It’s slowed enough now that I’m no longer gripping the bar like my life depends on it. I can look around. I can breathe. I can even enjoy parts of the ride without immediately bracing for impact.
The feelings still come. Of course they do. I let them pass through without putting on a show. I don’t explain myself, nor do I edit for comfort. I also don’t make it everyone else’s responsibility to process them with me over a mountain-high chocolate cake.
That chapter is closed. With enthusiasm.
That balance feels earned.
Being merry isn’t a performance. It’s honesty. It’s about letting the good moments land when they arrive, without forcing anything else. It’s choosing what feels right today and trusting tomorrow to mind itself. It’s knowing I don’t owe the season sparkle, grief, or a perfectly curated emotional arc with a bow on it.
Meaning doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t wear tinsel.
It arrives quietly, usually when I’m not trying so hard and definitely when I’ve stopped proving anything.
So this year, I’m doing December my way.
Taking the joy when it shows up. Letting the tender moments breathe and skipping anything that feels like an audition. Keeping the Christmas snacks on point and leaving early when I want to. Irish exits are self-care.
I don’t need to be merry to be meaningful.
I need to be myself, as I am now.
That’s plenty.
XO,
Tanya