A Christmas I Didn’t Plan, But Needed

If you had asked me a few years ago what my perfect Christmas looked like, I would have pictured a loud house. Family would be talking all at once, food would take ages to cook and disappear in minutes, and laughter would fill every corner. I would have talked about the comfort of being understood without needing to explain myself.

Instead, I spent Christmas far from home, in Japan. It was quiet, organised, and gentle in a way I didn’t expect.

I thought I would feel sad. I expected to feel nostalgic as soon as I woke up on Christmas morning, but that feeling never came. There was no heaviness or longing for the past. Instead, I felt a gentle calm that was new but welcome. It felt like life was telling me to let go of old memories and make room for something different.

My Christmas Day wasn’t festive in the usual way. I had a doctor’s appointment. Back home, that would have felt strange, like everyday life was getting in the way of something special. But in Japan, December 25th is just another day. Offices are open, clinics see patients, and trains run on schedule. Life continues, steady and calm.

There’s a quiet beauty in that kind of everyday life. There’s no pressure to pretend to be happy or to slow down if you don’t want to. You can just be yourself.

The appointment went well, and everything was fine. As simple as that sounds, it felt like a gift. Good health reminds you that sometimes peace just means nothing is wrong. I left feeling lighter and quietly grateful.

In Japan, Christmas isn’t about big family gatherings. It’s more about the feeling than tradition. Cities glow with winter lights. Trees are wrapped in lights, and the streets turn into quiet streams of colour. In places like Shibuya and Roppongi, couples walk together, stopping for photos under glowing arches while soft music plays.

Cafés serve strawberry shortcake, which is the unofficial Christmas dessert here. It’s made of light sponge, fresh cream, and neatly arranged strawberries. Weeks before Christmas, people order fried chicken from KFC, a tradition so common in Japan that it barely needs explaining. It’s different, but once you stop comparing, you start to appreciate it.

It’s refreshing to have a holiday without emotional expectations. There’s no guilt in wanting peace and quiet, and no fixed idea of what joy should look or feel like.

On the 26th, things changed. We had our end-of-year party, 'bonenkai', which is a work tradition meant to help everyone “forget the year.” It’s not about speeches. It’s about recognising effort, getting through stress, there was food, easy laughter, and conversations that got warmer as the night went on.

Then, as usual, we went to karaoke. In Japan, karaoke brings everyone together. Job titles don’t matter, and shyness disappears. Even the quietest person sings with confidence. The songs were dramatic, emotional, and sometimes off-key, but perfection didn’t matter. What mattered was being there together.

I sang too, laughing at myself and letting go, feeling present in a way I hadn’t in a long time. For a few minutes, we were all just people. There were no expectations and no masks, just voices and music filling the room.

That night helped me understand that joy doesn’t always come from what’s familiar. Sometimes it shows up in new places, in moments shared with people who used to be strangers.

Living in Japan has changed me in small ways. I’ve learned to value structure, patience, and living with purpose. I listen more, spend time alone without distractions, and now understand that loneliness and solitude aren’t the same.

This Christmas didn’t look like home, but it felt like I was growing.

I’m learning that being far away doesn’t mean you’re disconnected. Sometimes it means you’re growing, finding parts of yourself that only appear when life gets quiet and simple.

This Christmas gave me something I didn’t know I needed: reassurance that I’m okay, that life is unfolding as it should, and that joy isn’t always loud.

And this year, I listened.