To the Mom Who Cries on Christmas

When joy, grief, exhaustion, frustration, gratitude and love all show up on the same day.

Last Christmas, long after the wrapping paper carnage had been swept into a sad pile and the last holiday movie had asked me to believe in the TRUE meaning of Christmas, I climbed into bed and cried.

Not the delicate, pretty kind of crying. Not the “single tear glistening by the twinkle lights” kind. More like the “my face is doing weird things and the snot is flowing” kind of crying.

Meanwhile, my kids were out in the living room being… themselves. Eating cookies. Roaming like festive raccoons. Verbally poking each other in that specific sibling language that sounds like insults but is apparently also affection. If you’d asked them, I’m sure they would have said it was a great Christmas.

Because it was.

So why was I lying on my bed crying like someone had died?

I was crying because for weeks I’d been preparing. Not just for a day—for a season. I had done all the things moms do in December, which is basically to become a part-time logistics coordinator and a full-time memory manufacturer.

I bought thoughtful gifts—some sentimental, some practical. I decorated. I baked dozens of treats. I grocery shopped with the intensity of a woman preparing for a small but emotionally high-stakes conference. I planned meals. Curated movie playlists. Managed schedules. Adjusted expectations. Set reminders. Hid presents. Unhid presents. Hid them again in a new location because teenagers have a sixth sense for Amazon boxes.

And then… Christmas arrived.

And my kids weren’t exactly appreciative.

They weren’t ungrateful in a villainous, mustache-twirling way. They were just… teenagers. Not exactly known for stopping mid–cinnamon roll to deliver a warm speech about how they’ve always admired my dedication to creating holiday magic.

Their brains are still under construction. Their emotional range on December 25 tends to land somewhere between “cool” and “can you give me more time on Instagram?” They cannot fully grasp the breath and scope of what goes into a Christmas morning that feels effortless to enjoy.

And honestly? That brought me to my bed.

I cried out of frustration and exhaustion. Out of the strange grief that sneaks in when you realize time is moving. Out of the awareness that the clock is ticking and every year is one fewer opportunity for us all to be together in the same house, in the same pajamas, under the same roof.

Have you been there?

Crying on what is supposed to be a day of peace, joy, and love… if you believe the Hallmark movies or are trying to recreate the nativity scene you’ve set up on the side table with the tiny, calm Mary who has clearly never stepped on a Lego.

We all have the fantasy. Don’t act like you don’t.

The warm, cozy Christmas morning where children open presents with excited, grateful faces while the scent of breakfast casserole floats through the air like a Christmas angel. Your husband is on the couch with his arm around you. You’re sipping coffee, looking at your offspring with the soft glow of a woman who has never once threatened to cancel Christmas.

The kids exclaim, “It’s EXACTLY what I wanted!” They don’t fight. No one insults their sibling. No one tosses a “perfect” gift on the couch like it’s a pile of laundry. They help clean up. They thank you. Not just for today—but for everything. For the safe, warm, interesting life you’ve built with your own two hands and a Costco membership.

And later, they will fight over who gets to take care of you in your old age.

It’s a hazy fantasy, and it lives in all of us.

Was this my first Christmas crying? Of course not.

I remember crying when my firstborn was brand new—his tiny hand in mine, my chest tight with the awareness that he would never be that small again.

I remember crying when the kids were toddlers—stressed about money spent on gifts they’d forget by New Year’s, spiraling as I watched a two-year-old ignore a toy I could’ve sworn would change their life.

I remember crying when they were school-aged—when family dynamics got complicated and the logistics of “who are we spending the holidays with this year” felt like negotiating peace treaties.

And now? I cry because my kids sometimes act like I am the paid staff of their lives… and also because I can already see the day when they won’t be here, and I don’t want that day to come. Not even a little.

So here’s the truth: I’m probably going to cry on Christmas again.

Maybe in bed late at night. Maybe in the shower that morning. (Crying in the shower with the lights off is elite. Highly recommend. 5 Stars.)

And I’ve finally decided I don’t need to feel weird about it.

Christmas has a way of exposing what moms carry every day: a complicated cocktail of love, longing, stress, tenderness, resentment, gratitude, nostalgia, and sheer exhaustion. Most of the year, we can keep the emotional train at bay with to-do lists and carpool lines and the constant hum of normal life.

But Christmas forces a pause.

Even if the pause is happening while your kids are bickering over who “looked at who weird,” there’s a moment where the emotions catch up. And sometimes they don’t just catch up—they run you over.

So I’m not here to tell you to change your perspective. I’m not here to advise you to do less, or lower your expectations, or start a new gratitude journal in the middle of wrapping presents at 1 a.m.

I’m not trying to stop the train anymore.

That’s all I want you to know.

When you feel the emotion welling up this year—whether it’s frustration, grief, longing, or so much love you can’t contain it—know you are not alone.

Let the tears out. (Again: shower. Or the pantry. The pantry is also a solid choice because you can have a snack at the same time.)

And when you cry, do not pretty-cry. This is not the moment for gentle tears and composed breathing. Go full ugly cry. You need it. Your body is releasing what it’s been carrying.

Then wash your face. Take a deep breath. Go eat a cinnamon bun. Or two. Cuddle up on the couch with whichever kid still lets you get close—whether it’s a snuggle, a shoulder lean, or the sacred teenage equivalent of affection: sitting near you without complaining.

Hold their hand if they’ll let you. Take in their laugh. Listen to the chaos. Let the Christmas lights twinkle behind them even if no one is acknowledging how magical you made it.

Because this is Christmas motherhood.

It’s peace, love, and joy.

And also? It’s everything else.

Let the tears roll.

Then go back out there and make the most of it while you can.