You know when you close your eyes, travel back to that one moment in time, the one that feels so real you can smell it, hear it and feel its warmth in the air? For me, that moment has always been Christmas. Every time I see the first string of lights go up or hear a familiar carol play in the background, I’m instantly brought back to this one memory: my brother and I standing beside our Christmas tree, our faces glowing in the soft light, completely mesmerized by the magic of it all.
Christmas wasn’t just a holiday in my family; it was a tradition, a celebration that stitched us together year after year. I grew up surrounded by cousins, aunts and uncles — the kind of big, noisy family that could fill an entire house with love and laughter. My grandmother, the oldest of twelve, was the center of it all. Her home was where Christmas truly came alive. There was always music playing — sometimes Spanish ballads, sometimes classic carols — and the smell of food drifting through every room. The adults chatted and cooked while the kids ran around, counting down the hours until we could open presents.
It’s funny how every memory of my childhood seems to have Christmas tucked somewhere inside it. Maybe it’s because Christmas, for us, was never just about the gifts or the decorations. It was about being together, even if that meant the chaos of too many people talking at once or the endless cleanup after dinner. It was about the laughter that made your stomach hurt and the hugs that lasted a second longer than usual.
My grandma used to say that Christmas was a reminder of esperanza (hope) and that even in difficult years, the season carried a kind of healing magic. I didn’t understand what she meant when I was little. Back then, I thought the magic came from Santa Claus or the shiny wrapping paper. But as I’ve grown older, I realize she was right. Christmas is hope, the hope that things can get better, that love still exists even in the smallest gestures and that family, no matter how scattered, will always find its way back to one another, even if just in memory.
If I could go back in time, I’d go back to those Christmases. I would go back to sitting beside my cousins on the floor, waiting for my uncle to call our names to open a gift. I would go back to watching my grandma’s eyes light up as everyone sang along to the same song she’d played for decades. I’d go back to those moments when everything felt simple, when love and joy filled the room in a way that made the world outside disappear.
But time has a way of changing things. Family members move away, traditions fade and the people who once made the holidays special aren’t always there anymore. My grandma, the heart of our celebrations, passed down her recipes and her stories, but not even her warmth could stop the years from moving forward. Christmas looks different now. The gatherings are smaller, quieter. Sometimes, it’s just my immediate family and me, and though the laughter still comes, there’s a small ache that lingers as a reminder of how things used to be.
Still, I refuse to let go of my Christmas spirit. Every year, I find new ways to keep it alive. I decorate my space, even if it’s just a dorm room. I play the same songs that once echoed through my grandma’s house. I light a candle that smells like cinnamon and pine, and for a moment, I feel like I’m back home again. The world might have changed, but the feeling of that deep sense of warmth and belonging never really leaves.
It’s not about recreating the past; it’s about carrying its spirit into the present. It’s about kindness, connection and taking the time to make others feel loved, whether that’s calling a friend who’s spending the holidays alone or sharing a cup of hot cocoa after finals. Christmas reminds me to slow down, to be grateful and to remember that the smallest acts of love can make the biggest difference.
Maybe that’s why, even as life gets busier and the world feels colder, I can’t let go of that sense of childhood magic. Because for me, Christmas isn’t just a date on the calendar or a season of decorations, it’s a feeling that lives in my heart all year long. It’s the laughter of my cousins, the voice of my grandma, the glow of the tree reflected in my brother’s eyes. It’s every moment of hope and love that continues to shape who I am.
If I could, I would celebrate Christmas again and again, not because I miss the presents, but because I miss the people, the warmth, the memories that made me believe in something bigger than myself. Even though it’s not the same anymore, I’ll always hold onto that spirit. Because as soon as the air gets colder and the lights begin to twinkle, I can’t help but think: it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and for a moment, everything feels right again.
Alexandra Garcia Herrera is a freshman from Laurel, Md. majoring in Chemistry. Her column, “Letter from a Freshman,” explores her reflections on what happens outside the syllabus: friendships, identity, grief and growth.
