A few Decembers ago, I found myself standing in a shopping mall after work, arms full of bags, clothes slightly damp from the rain outside, wondering why I felt so strangely irritable. Christmas songs were playing — the same few, on repeat — and everyone seemed to be moving with purpose. Buy this. Queue there. Wrap later. Smile now. Argue over price discrepancy. Fight over the limited set of discounted items.
And I remember thinking, not for the first time: Why does this season feel so tiring when it’s supposed to feel joyful?
It wasn’t that I disliked Christmas. I didn’t. In fact, I love it! I love it even more than Hari Raya. The promise of slowing down. The warmth of gathering. The symbolic pause at the end of the year. Legs stretched out, resting by the fireplace and sipping on hot cocoa. But by the time December rolled around, my body often felt like it had already given everything it could. Christmas didn’t arrive as rest. It arrived as another quest to prepare for.
Every year, we wish each other the same things. Have a merry Christmas. Enjoy the holidays. Have a good break.These wishes are sincere. Kind. Well-meaning. And yet, for many of us, they land with a quiet irony. Because December is rarely a gentle landing. It’s a tightening.
In Singapore — and across much of Asia — December isn’t just festive. It’s the end. End of projects. End of school terms. End of targets, budgets, syllabi, responsibilities. There is a sense of urgency to finish strong, to close loops, to not “waste” the year. And right in the middle of that, we are expected to perform celebration.
There is also the weather.
December here is rain-heavy. Grey. Damp. Days blur into one another under thick clouds. Sunshine — the kind that usually fuels our energy in the tropics — becomes a rare guest. You wake up to rain. You leave work in rain. Everything feels slightly slower, heavier, more muted.
There have been multiple studies in psychology and neuroscience pointing to the link between sunlight and mood. Research from institutions such as Harvard Medical School and the National Institutes of Health has shown that exposure to sunlight helps regulate serotonin levels, which directly affect mood and energy. Less sunlight has been associated with lower energy, disrupted sleep cycles, and low mood — something often discussed in relation to seasonal affective disorder in temperate countries.
We may not have winter in Singapore, but our December gloom has its own version of that effect. When the sun disappears for weeks, the body feels it. The mind does too.
And yet, this is the moment we choose to pile on more.
Christmas is labour-heavy in ways we don’t always acknowledge. Gift hunting alone feels like a logistical exercise — navigating crowds, prices, expectations, obligations. Then comes wrapping, meal planning, cooking, cleaning, hosting, entertaining. All of this layered on top of normal life, which does not pause just because it’s festive.
For introverts, the cost is especially high. Social energy is finite. Hosting, making conversation across long dinners, being “on” for extended periods — these things take effort. And in many Asian families, presence is equated with care. To not show up, or to leave early, can be read as distance, disrespect, or lack of gratitude, even when what you actually need is rest.
Psychologists have long observed this tension. Surveys by the American Psychological Association consistently show that a large majority of adults experience heightened stress during the holiday season, with time pressure, financial strain, and social obligations cited as major contributors. Social psychology research has also noted that festive family meals are often among the most emotionally draining social events of the year, especially when layered with unspoken expectations or unresolved dynamics.
So if Christmas feels exhausting, it’s not because you’re doing it wrong. It’s because the structure of it is demanding.
What makes it harder is the emotional script we’re handed. Christmas is supposed to feel joyful. Restorative. Meaningful. We’re encouraged to be grateful, generous, present. And when our internal reality doesn’t match that script — when we feel tired, irritable, or numb — we quietly assume the problem lies with us.
But many people are tired. They’re just tired quietly.
There’s also a particular irony to this season. Christmas is often framed as a time to be especially kind and sensitive to others. A beautiful idea, of course. Necessary even. But kindness requires energy. Empathy requires emotional capacity. And by December, many of us are already running low.
This is the catch-22. We are exhausted, yet asked to exhaust ourselves further in the name of care. We are depleted, yet encouraged to give generously. And when we struggle to do so, guilt steps in — guilt for needing space, for wanting quiet, for not feeling festive enough.
Perhaps what we need is a gentler understanding of what kindness can look like during this time.
Kindness does not always mean doing more. Sometimes it means doing less, deliberately. It might mean simplifying traditions instead of preserving them out of habit. It might look like fewer gatherings, shorter visits, quieter celebrations. It might mean saying no without turning it into a long explanation.
In many Asian cultures, we celebrate abundance — of food, of company, of generosity. But there is also wisdom in restraint. In recognising that sustainability, emotional and otherwise, matters. That care given at the cost of burnout eventually stops being care.
Kindness, then, might also mean extending grace to ourselves. Allowing rest without justification. Accepting that not every Christmas needs to be memorable in the same way. Understanding that joy does not need to be loud, elaborate, or exhausting to be real.
So this year, when someone wishes you a merry Christmas, perhaps receive the warmth behind the words. But also allow yourself to acknowledge the effort it took just to get here. The long year. The rain. The fatigue. The quiet resilience required to keep going.
After all, making it through December — emotionally and physically — might just be the most honest holiday achievement of all.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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