Dear tired parent,
This is your official, no-signature-required, no-guilt-attached permission slip for Christmas.
You are allowed to stop trying so damn hard.
You are allowed to admit that this season is exhausting. Not magical. Not cozy. Exhausting. And if one more person tells you to “soak it all in,” you might actually scream into a pillow.
So here it is, in writing, because apparently parents need written proof before they let themselves rest.
You have permission to lower the bar.
Like… way lower.
Your house does not need to look like a Hallmark movie. Your kids do not need coordinated outfits. Christmas does not need homemade cookies, matching pajamas, elaborate traditions, or a perfectly curated morning.
If everyone is fed, relatively safe, and not actively sobbing at the same time? You nailed it.
You have permission to buy the easy stuff.
Store-bought cookies count.
Frozen food counts.
Amazon gift cards count.
Target pickup counts.
You do not get bonus parenting points for suffering.
You have permission to skip traditions.
Even the ones you used to love.
Even the ones your family expects.
Even the ones Instagram says are “core memories.”
You are allowed to change, rest, simplify, or opt out entirely. Traditions are meant to serve families—not trap them.
You have permission to feel nothing.
Not joy.
Not gratitude.
Not magic.
If Christmas feels flat, heavy, sad, or overstimulating, you are not broken. You are human. Many parents are carrying grief, burnout, financial stress, mental load, and invisible exhaustion that doesn’t magically disappear because it’s December.
You don’t owe anyone festive emotions.
You have permission to cry in the bathroom.
Or the shower.
Or your car.
Or your bed after everyone’s asleep.
Tears don’t mean you’re ungrateful. They mean you’re overwhelmed—and that makes sense.
You have permission to say no.
No to visits.
No to hosting.
No to staying longer than you want.
No to explaining yourself.
You don’t need a “good reason” to protect your peace. “I can’t” is enough.
You have permission to rest.
Even if the house is messy.
Even if someone else is disappointed.
Even if you didn’t “earn it.”
You are allowed to sit down. To scroll. To zone out. To do nothing. To exist without producing Christmas magic for everyone else.
And finally—this matters most:
Your kids do not need a perfect Christmas.
They need you.
A regulated you.
A present you.
A human you.
Not a martyr.
Not a burnt-out shell.
Not someone who collapses on December 26 wondering why they feel empty.
If Christmas was chaotic, loud, messy, emotional, or completely unhinged—that doesn’t mean you failed. It means you lived through it.
So here it is, officially:
You are doing enough.
You are allowed to stop.
You are not ruining Christmas.
Take time to read this again if you need to, and go rest.
We’ll all survive with or without the matching pajamas.