Christmas, alone (in my head… and kind of loving it)

The first time I watched Home Alone, something unlocked in my nine-year-old brain. I don’t know what it was exactly; the slapstick shenanigans, the quiet independence, or the pure joy of being left to your own devices… but whatever it was, it stuck. 

While other kids were dreaming about snowy mornings and presents under the tree, I was imagining what it would be like to wake up and have the whole house to myself. No one asking me to help peel potatoes. No one switching off the TV halfway through my favourite film. Just me, a tin of biscuits, and total festive freedom. 

That thought moved in and lived rent free. And one year, I decided to… test it out. 

The “Home Alone” phase 

I was about nine, deep in my Home Alone obsession, and completely enchanted by the idea of turning a house into an obstacle course, the way Kevin did with string, marbles, and household items. 

So, one Christmas while staying at my uncle’s house, I had what I thought was a stroke of genius. Inspired by the film (and with a slightly overactive imagination), I set up a few “traps” using things I found around the house. A balloon here. A bit of baby powder there. Let’s just say I was committed to the creative process. 

Looking back now, I laugh, mostly at how seriously I took it. To me, it wasn’t about causing trouble. It was about bringing a movie moment to life, about having fun, and, honestly, about trying to create a little pocket of magic and play in a world that often felt way too serious for a nine-year-old. 

That was my version of festive fun: dramatic, playful, innocent, and powered entirely by imagination. 

Christmas (in my head, and also in real life this year) 

Every year around this time, I find myself drifting into old habits, not just the ones involving mince pies for dinner or pretending I know all the words to “O Holy Night”, but the habit of mentally slipping into a quiet, solo Christmas fantasy. 

It started when I was nine, fresh off my first watch of Home Alone, convinced that being left to my own festive devices would be the ultimate dream. No noise. No questions. Just fairy lights, biscuits, and full freedom to booby-trap the hallway with baby powder and water balloons. 

But this year… This year feels different. 

Because this Christmas, I’m not home alone, I’m home with B. 

What I’m actually looking forward to this year 

There’s something really lovely about letting myself feel excited. Not perform excited, just soft, simple joy for the little things coming up. 

I’m looking forward to evenings wrapped up in scarves and coats with B, wandering through Christmas markets holding overpriced mulled wine, rating the fairy lights in every stall. I'm looking forward to carols… Not necessarily because I can sing them well (I still forget the lyrics to Silent Night beyond the first verse and chorus), but because there’s something grounding about singing something ancient and joyful in a room full of strangers. 

There’ll be cocktails. Maybe one too many. 
There’ll be me trying to decorate the tree while Benaiah tries to untangle the lights without swearing. 
There’ll be music playing. 

And somewhere between the chaos and the calm, the festive emails and the burnt potatoes, there’ll be a pause. A shared look across the room. A hand squeeze. A reminder that we chose each other. And that’s worth celebrating too.  

Remembering where I come from 

Part of creating a Christmas that feels like home means honouring where I come from. And for me, that’s a beautiful blend of Lebanese and Ghanaian culture, layered onto a very British upbringing. 

Growing up, our Christmas table was flavour central. 

There’d be hummus, tabbouleh, kibbeh and plantain. 

Jollof or rice and stew would sit right alongside turkey, roast potatoes, stuffing, veg and all the trimmings. 

It was a sensory mashup of cultures. Nothing overly polished, just generous and bold and full of heart. That blend taught me early on that Christmas wasn’t about following a template. It was about bringing what you have, sharing it, and letting every dish tell a story. 

I carry that with me now, in my home, in my marriage, in the quiet decisions about how we celebrate. 

Benaiah also brings his German chocolate goodies (drooling just thinking about it). 

Honouring the fantasy while living the real thing 

I think there’s still room for the old daydream, the one where I imagined myself as a solo heroine, soaking in a Christmas of my own making. That fantasy got me through some tough years. It gave me imagination when reality was heavy. And I honour her, that nine-year-old version of me who wanted softness and quiet and something that felt like hers. 

But this year, I also honour what I have now. 

This marriage. This partnership. This slightly chaotic, always evolving love story that includes Christmas playlists, shared cooking disasters, and one of us (Ben) doing the absolute most with the décor. 

Not perfect, but present 

It’s not always tidy. I still get overwhelmed. I still overcommit. I still try to make Christmas feel like a storybook and then feel mildly betrayed when it doesn’t go to plan. 

So here’s to this Christmas, the one I get to live, not just imagine. 

To carols, cocktails, markets, mess. To making memories that don’t need to be perfect to matter.
To real connection, real rest, and hopefully, a roast that doesn’t burn. 

Merry almost-Christmas, 
Nic 💛 

Feeling like you could do with some tips for handling the festive season? Check out neurodivergent coach Linda Fox holiday survival guide.