holiday-survival

I have a confession, and it might not be the popular choice. But I find celebrations exhausting. Particularly when I am directly involved in them. Not all of them, and not all of the time. But for something that meant to be fun, I seem to spend an awful lot of energy preparing for them, masking through them, and recovering from them. That doesn’t feel like fun to me. 

Holidays, birthdays, Christmas… basically anything that involves social pressure. And if you’re neurodivergent — autistic, ADHD, AuDHD, anxious, or just on your knees from people-ing — I bet you’re reading this and nodding along. Because there’s so much more than ‘joy’ involved. There’s compulsory attention, sensory overload, social scripts, other people’s expectations, and tons of logistics and executive function. I’m just exhausted thinking about it! 

So, this blog isn’t an anti-joy rant (promise). It’s a permission slip to everyone who finds celebrations complicated — and a little survival guide for making them more bearable, maybe even enjoyable… on your terms.

When your birthday feels like a “do you like It?” nightmare

Let’s start with birthdays, because they seem to bring out the worst of me whichever way you look at it.

On paper, birthdays sound great: a day all about you. In reality? A day all about you. Good lord. I’m not good at things being about me any other time of the year… and my birthday is no different. There’s so much to consider. Like, what will I actually do on the day — and will it be what I want instead of what everyone else thinks I want? How am I supposed to act when everyone is looking at my face while I open things? Have I mastered the “oh wow, I love it” face when I open something particularly disappointing?

Spoiler: I absolutely have not. I have crushed a few souls over the years with my lacklustre “thanks” as another candle joins the dusty candle graveyard in my fireplace.

For my 50th (I know, right? Not a day over 30!) I felt this more than ever. People kept asking, “What are you doing for the big five-0? New decade! Big plans?” Like I was planning to rise from the ashes of my 40s in a sequinned jumpsuit declaring “I’ve arrived!” When in reality, I just started to creak a lot more and began worrying about hydration levels, comfy shoes, and whether I needed arch support.

Note: If younger-me has somehow travelled through time and is reading this — I’m sorry. Older you never got that call from Dave Grohl and now prioritises sleep and water. 

Right — back to my 50s (which sounds like a disappointing 90s movie without Michael J. Fox). Confession time: I was due a major operation around my birthday, and I got a choice of dates. So I deliberately booked it so I’d be in hospital on my birthday. People were horrified…because they had no clue that it was deliberate! “Oh no, that’s awful, such bad timing!” No. It was perfect. I picked it. I wanted to be somewhere where nobody expected anything of me except lying still, drinking tea and eating biscuits. Bliss.

And yet (here comes the contradiction), I am fully capable of becoming a birthday princess monster if my “Oh, don’t worry about my birthday, it’s just another day” gets taken literally.

My husband and kids will never forget the year they leaned into my birthday ambivalence and made almost no effort. It was like someone injected my RSD with steroids and I felt every emotion in ten minutes flat. Tears, rage, disbelief, more tears. So yes, even when we know we don’t want the fuss, sometimes there’s a small feral part of us that still wants to feel special. The key, I’ve learned, is to stop pretending I don’t care and start being honest about what I can cope with.

Gift-giving, or as I call It: “Stop staring at my face”

Let’s talk about gift trauma. I cannot lie convincingly about presents. I just don’t have the face for it. If I get another generic middle-aged-lady hand cream gift set, my face will absolutely say “WTAF?” even if my mouth is attempting “Oh wow, I love it.”

I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I know the time, the cost, the last-minute panic shop (in the case of my husband). But my brain goes into meltdown — especially if the giver knows me well.

One year my husband got me a voucher for a very fancy shop for ladies who are significantly more chic and sensible than myself. In my head it became evidence that he didn’t know me at all. Cue days of overthinking and a small existential crisis, all because he panic-bought from the shop most likely closest to the carpark on Christmas eve. To avoid all the other panic buyers. 

When I eventually worked up the courage to go spend this voucher, it was like the “Pretty Woman” scene but without Julia Roberts’ charm or the happy ending. One sales assistant looked baffled that someone in ripped jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt had wandered in. The other looked like she was about to call security.

I ended up buying an expensive belt I would never wear just so I could leave with some dignity. Now he is under strict instruction to buy vouchers from shops where I actually belong.

Surprise parties: Why, just why?

On paper, they sound delightful. In reality, they’re jump scares with canapés. The sudden noise, the wall of faces, the sensory chaos, the lack of warning — it feels like being ambushed by everyone you’ve ever met.

Those who know me understand that if they ever throw me a surprise party, I will walk in, turn around, and go home. Probably with some crying in amongst that.  It’s not ingratitude. It’s about control and predictability. My brain wants to know where I’m going, who will be there, how long it’ll last, and (most importantly) where the exits are.

If you love a surprise party — fabulous, enjoy. No judgement (…ish). But some of us need a celebration with escape routes.

Christmas: Expensive sparkly chaos

Christmas is marketed as cosy, twinkly, joyful magic. But for many of us it’s an expensive sensory hurricane. The routine disruption. The noise. The family stuff. The forced fun. The exhaustion.

Personally, one of the best survival tactics I’ve ever discovered is cooking. Everyone assumes I’m suffering in the kitchen — “Oh, I feel so bad you’re doing all the cooking!” Please don’t. I love it. It gives me the quiet and structure I need to not burn out before the King’s Speech. My kitchen is tiny, so nobody can “help” unless they want to be hit with a roasting tin. Perfect.

Surviving celebrations isn’t about avoiding them. It’s about finding your entry point — the version that doesn’t drain your soul. And sometimes that means disappearing to your bedroom with no explanation. (Other rooms are available.) The world won’t end if you lie down during Christmas. Who knew?

Holidays: Same shit, different country

This is a whole episode on its own (coming in Episode 14), but they deserve a mention here. If not just for all the trauma they have caused me over the years. For many people, holidays are restorative. For me? When the kids were small, my husband stopped asking if I wanted to go on one after I described them as:

“The same shit in a different country, but without the kids’ favourite foods or safe spaces.”

The stress kicks in weeks before — planning, packing, taking time off work, managing all the unspoken emotional labour. If you love holidays — amazing. But if you don’t, it doesn’t make you broken. Rest looks different for some of us. Quiet days at home absolutely count.

Boundaries: The real celebration

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: You’re allowed to design celebrations around YOU. For years I thought I had to perform enjoyment to keep everyone else comfortable. Now I’m more interested in getting through these things without throat-punching an elderly relative.
(Disclaimer: that has never actually happened.)

Honesty helps. Recovery time helps. Boundaries help. Permission helps. If celebrations feel complicated, you’re not weird or ungrateful or anti-social. You’re a human with a nervous system that notices everything — and that has limits. You’re allowed to build a version of “special” that doesn’t leave you wrecked. You’re allowed to want a quiet breakfast and a book instead of a balloon arch and a bouncy castle.

Because when you stop forcing yourself to enjoy things the “normal” way, you make space for something better — moments that actually feel good, not just socially acceptable.

So, whether you celebrate big, small, strangely, quietly, or not at all, do it in a way that lets you breathe. You deserve that.