What have I learnt in the last thirty or so Christmases that I can pass on to you this year? As I reflect on all my Christmas moments, a few stand out, and I’d like to share them with you.
My first Christmas memory takes me back to a garden in South Africa. I was 13. It was warm, and the water in the pool was refreshing. The family had been going through some pretty tough times—parents constantly fighting, teenage tempers running wild, and anger—lots of anger. I remember seeing my dad and mum talking in the lounge of a family friend. Their body language was hostile, their voices rising—chaos.
My parents weren’t even trying to love each other anymore, let alone like the person they married. Hatred was pouring out of them. I stood outside, shocked and scared. I tried to offer presents, to make them happy, to sing a song. But nothing worked. That was the Christmas everything broke apart—when our family broke.
Fast forward 17 years, and my next biggest Christmas moment was in 2013. My mum had passed away that September, and the grief was still raw. We had this big Cotswold home, and all I wanted was to bring magic back to the family. We put up two Christmas trees, hung all my mum’s decorations, and prepared everything: turkey, beef, chicken, and all the Portuguese traditions my husband loves. It was a beautiful mix of English and Portuguese charm.
The whole family stayed—12 of us in total. I didn’t take a single photo that year, yet the memories are so vivid. I remember preparing since mid-October. Hosting helped fill my mind a month after my mum passed. I was in full host mode: cooking, decorating, and organising. I loved it. We laughed, ate, exchanged presents, and watched movies in our pyjamas.
But the hole my mum left stared back at me from the mantelpiece—the photo we used at her funeral. It hit me hard. I hadn’t allowed myself to grieve. I was so good at doing and keeping everything together, but I wonder now: Would it have been better to sit with my siblings and feel it together? To talk, to cry, to be?
The next big memory was our first Christmas in Australia. We’d planned a tropical escape to Bali as a last “hurrah” before trying for a baby. But life had its own plans—I fell pregnant before we left. That Christmas, I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep—by the pool, in our hotel room, anywhere. Morning sickness meant the only food I wanted was All-Bran Flakes, and glamour disappeared.
A few days before we travelled, we almost lost Amelia. I still remember the hours in A&E, waiting to see if our baby was okay. The relief of hearing her heartbeat was everything. The trip turned into a blessing. I rested, Jorge thrived (he’d never been healthier), and we soaked in the quiet hope that she was still with us.
Then came our first Christmas as parents. The big house, the festive cheer, and the family and friends staying over looked like perfection. I ordered food, set tables, passed my daughter around for hugs, and soaked in the praise for hosting. Yet deep down, I felt lost. I missed my own mum. I was struggling with motherhood, but hosting was my safe place. I could hold it all together. But I felt empty when the night feeds began, and the guests had gone—alone.
Fast forward to 2023—Christmas in the caravan. We made decorations, strung up a few lights, and stayed with family in Esperance. It was beautifully simple. Being with my mum’s side of the family brought up so many memories. I heard stories about her time in Zimbabwe, things I’d never known. But I noticed something: even surrounded by family, I couldn’t just sit. I didn’t have cooking or hosting to busy myself with, so I filled the space with food, drinks, and treats. I ate to drown out emotions—and hated myself for it later.
Looking back at these Christmases, I see the story I’ve been replaying. I’ve been putting on a show, holding the pieces together, directing everyone’s emotions, trying to create movie scenes. But underneath, I’m still that 13-year-old girl: shocked, broken, and lost.
So what is the lesson here? We need to understand our ghosts of Christmas past to become more present in what this season can mean for us now.
Christmas isn’t about perfect hosting or flawless days. It’s not about glueing people together or crafting fake happiness. It’s about stopping, being present, and loving yourself enough to let go of the past. It’s about being with the people you love—messy emotions, chaotic kids, and imperfect moments.
Here’s my wish for you this Christmas: Be present. Be there for the people you love, remember those you lost, but don’t lose yourself trying to “make it perfect.” Let the ghosts of past Christmases rest. Give yourself permission to show up as you—not as the glue, not as the host, not as the fixer. Just you.
When the lights are dimmed, and the laughter fades, the moments when you were enough remain.
Wishing you a Christmas filled with love, grace, and the gift of simply being.