Remembering Christmas After a Breakup
By wchung | 22 Feb, 2025

Christmas shines brightest during the really dark patches of your life.

Breakups hurt. It’s been well-documented. And sadly, all the clichés are true. Sleeping is a chore, food tastes like sawdust and sometimes, it’s hard to breathe. But even more painful than the physical symptoms is the loss of identity and the fear that life will never be the same again.

For several days, I moped around in this pitiful, restless state, struggling to come to terms with what had happened, but today, I had to suck it up, because today was the day my little brother and the rest of his third grade recorder choir were performing. Not just at the school, but all over the city and even at a local television station. It was a day my little brother was anticipating for months and I was a chaperone.

So I put on my happy face and hopped on the school bus, which stopped first at the television station – a curious open lot, spotted with tents dressed up in holiday décor. As I watched the cameras roll, I am reminded of the many Christmas mornings I spent curled up in front of the TV, watching holiday programs similar to this, except in my experience, these programs usually featured some middle-aged man in front of a grand piano, belting out Christmas melodies across festive cardboard sets.

Once the cameras stopped, we headed to the local mall. This time, the choir performed several sets, stopping at various locations throughout the mall, reminding me of the year I went caroling with a group of friends and raised $100 for cancer research. The money was a plus, but the best part was bringing a smile to people’s faces – something the recorder choir brought in spades today.

Lastly, we stopped at a nursing home. I’ve always despised nursing homes because, unlike many people my age, I find the elderly fascinating. Although frail in appearance, they have lived and seen much more than the average population and belong to a part of society I consider “rich in life.” So the idea of discarding them into these drab, lonely, disease-infested prisons seems not only barbaric but nonsensical. For these reasons alone, this last stop was particularly difficult for me.

The dread became even more apparent when I entered the home and witnessed the little white-haired persons perched on plastic, folding chairs, looking sad and feeble. But then, the children started playing. And as the first notes of Jingle Bells sounded, a look of recognition dawned on the wrinkled faces – a faint remembrance of Christmases past. Some smiled, some drummed their fingers on their knees, some nodded their heads and admittedly, some also fell asleep. But for those who stayed awake, I can only imagine what memories these songs conjured up – which one out of the 60 or 70 past Christmases they were reliving at that moment.

I guess that’s the beauty of Christmas. As time passes, situations changed, people come in and out of your life, but Christmas stays the same. It comes the same time every year, accompanied by the same traditions, whether it’s the Christmas tree sitting at your local Macy’s, the stocking dangling over the fireplace mantel or those same carols people hummed thirty years ago and will probably be humming thirty years from now. Christmas occurs the same way every year, regardless of what’s happening in your life or who’s in your life. The only other thing this consistent in your life is you.

And as for me, remembering Christmas helped me in ways no friend could. It helped remember who I was before my relationship, who I can be in future and who I will always be regardless of the passing events in my life.

Three hours ago, I had my first Big Mac in a long time and boy, did I enjoy it.