The Christmas Playbook Was Written by Men, and I’m Over It
Deep Brew | From lip gloss advent calendars to the erasure of Mary’s voice, the holidays are due for a rewrite.
It was Christmas Eve, and I was wandering through World Market, surrounded by holiday chaos disguised as cheer. On one shelf, a four-foot tube of gumballs. On another, a lip gloss advent calendar—24 tiny tubes of shimmer and shine.
I stopped. Lip gloss. In every shade and for every day of December.
Is this what we’ve reduced Christmas to? Trinkets and glitter? A performance in red and green?
I walked out empty-handed, but that calendar stuck with me. Lip gloss—something that smudges, fades, and needs constant reapplication. It felt like the perfect metaphor for this time of year: a fleeting sparkle that demands so much effort to maintain. And, this is from someone who likes lip gloss. I love it. But, on my own terms.
Every year, we chase the idea of “magic,” but somehow, it always feels just out of reach.
A Script We Didn’t Write
Think about the Christmas stories we all know.
A Christmas Story. Elf. Christmas with the Kranks.
In every one of them, the men stumble through the holidays—bumbling but lovable—and by the end, they’re the heroes. Meanwhile, the women stay in the background, stringing lights, baking cookies, and managing the chaos to ensure everything looks like joy.
Even the so-called “feminist” Christmas movies can’t escape this trap. In Bad Moms Christmas, the moms revolt for a hot second, only to circle back to saving the day. Frazzled, exhausted, and somehow still wrapping gifts while a montage of redemption plays.
By the credits, they’ve learned to love the pressure of doing it all.
This isn’t an accident. The stories we celebrate, the traditions we inherit, the expectations we shoulder—they come from a script we didn’t write. A script shaped by patriarchy, polished by capitalism, and tied up with the bow of white supremacy.
It’s a machine that thrives on the myth of the “good mom”—a woman who builds the magic, makes the memories, and never complains. A woman who does it all, not because she wants to, but because she’s been told it’s what makes her worthy.
The cost of this is steep.
It’s time stolen from our rest, our joy, our sense of self. And for marginalized women, the stakes are even higher—where holiday traditions often feel more like survival, with far less support and recognition.
From Sacred to Suburban
Growing up, Christmas felt different.
My Caribbean parents treated it as a time for faith and family. We spent the day at church, then came home to a table full of potluck dishes. There was no Santa Claus—we had my grandmother to thank for that—and no matching pajamas.
Christmas wasn’t a production; it was an offering. It wasn’t about glitter and “magic.” It was about connection.
However, somewhere along the way, the season turned into something else. Martha Stewart told us a good holiday needed hand-tied garlands and four-course meals. Focus on the Family insisted that Christmas—and by extension, motherhood—was sacred work to be carried out with quiet perfection. Because, seriously, if you weren’t hand-glittering ornaments while slow-cooking a roast, were you even trying?
The message was clear: Christmas wasn’t just a holiday; it was a stage. And women were both the actors and the set designers.
But this script doesn’t work for me anymore. It never really did. Because here’s the truth: The Christmas playbook, as we know it, wasn’t written for women. It wasn’t even written by women. Christmas was written by men.
The Silent Mary
When I say Christmas was written by men, I’m not just talking about Hallmark movies or Norman Rockwell’s Tired Salesgirl on Christmas Eve painting of an exhausted woman wrapped in holiday cheer. I’m talking about the story at the very foundation of the holiday:
Mary.
The quiet, obedient virgin who gives birth to the savior of the world.
She is everywhere in December—painted in soft blues, her eyes lowered, her hands folded. Silent. Perfect. Holy.
But the real Mary? She wasn’t silent.
In the Gospel of Mary—a text deliberately left out of the Bible by early Church authorities (let’s just say it: men)—Mary Magdalene is depicted as a teacher and leader. She questions. She speaks. She guides. She is fierce and full of agency, a far cry from the porcelain figurine on every Hobby Lobby shelf in America.
The erasure of Mary’s voice wasn’t accidental; it was a choice.
And it’s no coincidence that the Christmas story we inherited asks women to erase themselves, too.
When the Shine Wears Thin
For me, the unraveling of Christmas has been gradual.
It started with small moments—staring at a tube of gumballs and feeling the absurdity of it all. It grew in conversations with other women, where we’d laugh about the Elf on the Shelf antics, even though we all agreed the whole thing was ridiculous.
And it cracked open entirely when I realized this: Christmas isn’t just a holiday—it’s a blueprint, laying bare the systems that shape our lives. Patriarchy, which assigns women the role of invisible laborers. Capitalism, which dangles perfection like a prize just out of reach. White supremacy, which decides whose traditions are celebrated and whose stories are erased. Every part of it maps out the roles we’re expected to play—roles we never asked for.
But let me be clear: I’m talking about a very specific kind of Christmas—one that centers on suburban affluence, where matching pajamas and curated photo shoots are the expectation. For many women, the pressure isn’t just about holiday cards or Pinterest-worthy decorations—it’s about surviving the season while carrying even more weight, on fewer resources, and with far less recognition.
We’re told that joy is a photo-worthy, perfectly curated moment. That “good moms” create magic at any cost. That rest is indulgent and guilt is inevitable.
But what if it’s not?
Rewriting the Script
So, here’s my Christmas resolution: I’m opting out.
I’m letting go of the shoulds and the guilt. I’m delegating responsibilities to my partner because, let’s be real, I am not Santa Claus. I’m focusing on what actually matters to me: connection, rest, and joy—not the kind that photographs well, but the kind that feels real.
This isn’t just about Christmas, though. It’s about all the scripts we’ve been handed—motherhood, friendship, womanhood—the roles we’ve been assigned and the expectations that come with them.
It’s about asking, again and again: Is this what I want?
And for the things that don’t feel true, being brave enough to let them go.
The Invitation
This year, take the holidays back.
Reject the script that tells you your worth is measured by how much magic you create or how seamlessly you perform. Let this be the year you trade the pressure of perfection for the freedom to simply be.
Because here’s the truth: Christmas—like so much else—wasn’t built with us in mind.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t rewrite it. Start small. Prioritize what feels real. Let go of what doesn’t. Step off the stage they built for you and into a life that feels fully yours, in this season and beyond.
Who would you be if you stopped performing?
And what kind of world could we build if we stopped following their script and started writing our own?