The Christmas we stopped apologising
Christmas used to feel like a test I had not revised for. Everyone else seemed to glide through it with tidy photo moments and matching pyjamas, while I was the parent sprinting down the church aisle to scoop up a child who was screaming on the stage in the middle of the nativity. I remember sweating under the fairy lights, whispering apologies to people I would never see again, wondering why this simple thing was so hard for her. And for me.
My daughter has autism. She is bright and curious and very sure of what she likes. She is also very sure of what she does not like. And Christmas, with its flashing lights, crowds, sudden noises, smells, surprises, and strange social rules, hit her like a sensory storm every year.
For a long time, our Christmas traditions looked nothing like the ones in books or movies. She refused coats in the middle of snowstorms because she only wanted the thin summer jacket with the leopard print on it. I would stand in the front garden holding a thick winter coat like a defeated Liverpool goalkeeper ( sorry couldn't resist ) while she strutted past me with her bare arms and fierce confidence, ready to fight the weather on her own terms.
She wanted to open everybody's presents, not just her own. And honestly, she was not trying to be bold. She just could not understand why a shiny wrapped box was supposed to wait for someone else. Waiting was painful for her. Curiosity was louder.
The Grinch played on a loop in our house. Not twice. Not three times. More like forty. She knew every line and every tiny change in tone. She found comfort in the repetition. Meanwhile, the rest of us were slowly losing our grip on reality, mouthing along to scenes while washing dishes or brushing our teeth.
Christmas dinner never quite fit either. While everyone around us roasted turkeys, glazed hams, stirred gravy, and posted perfect plates online, my child sat happily with the same food she ate every other day of the year. I used to feel embarrassed. Like I was failing at parenting because she would not touch a turkey or a sprout or anything that smelled even remotely festive.
Strong scents were a battle. Cinnamon. Ginger. The air freshener shops use to fake the smell of Christmas cheer. Choirs were hard, too. Too loud. Too layered. Too many voices at once. So we often left events early, with me carrying her coat, her hat, her gloves, and her disappointment while strangers looked on with their quiet judgments.
Christmas, for a long time, felt like learning a dance routine everyone else had memorised while I was still struggling with the first step.
But then something happened. Time. Growth. A lot of patience. A lot of tears. A lot of learning. Mostly by me.
I stopped asking her to change first. I changed the world around her. I softened Christmas. Slowed it down. Took away the pressure. I made our own version of the holiday. Our own pace. Our own rules.
And little by little, she found her shape inside it.
Now she stands on stage at carol concerts and sings her heart out. The same child who could not bear the sound of a choir has learned to make her own music. She beams under the lights. She looks for me in the audience. And I sit there with tears in my eyes, remembering the days when I could barely keep her on the stage long enough to photograph the back of her costume.
She tries new foods now. Small bites. Tiny steps. But she tries. She also understands that Daddy might want to open his own present for once. She even hands it to him with this proud smile that says, Look. I get it now.
None of this happened overnight. None of it happened because she became someone different. It happened because we stopped trying to squeeze her into cardboard cutout traditions and instead built our Christmas around what she needed.
If you are reading this, and you are still at the beginning of your own journey, I want you to hear me clearly.
Nothing is wrong with your child. Nothing is wrong with you. You do not need to perform Christmas for anyone else. You do not need to apologise for the way your child experiences the world. You do not need to explain why she is refusing a coat or why she is crying on stage or why she is eating chicken nuggets during a turkey dinner or why you are leaving early.
It is your wee family and your wee Christmas. Everyone else will just have to get over it if they do not like what you are doing.
One day, you will look back and see the progress you cannot see right now. The victories that only make sense after years of tiny, exhausting steps. The quiet strength of your child trying their best in a world that was not built with them in mind.
Your Christmas might not look like anyone else’s. It might be messy and loud and different in a hundred ways.
But it will be yours.
And that makes it perfect.
Love Frankly FiFi G x
