Christmas anecdotes

Andy is a writer. Negotiating life with pain and fatigue has meant discovering new ways to celebrate Christmas. In this series of anecdotes, Andy shares how difficult yet joyous that journey can be.

1. “The Christmas Light Dilemma”

Every year, the twinkle of Christmas lights feels like a promise of magic. But untangling those lights? It’s a marathon for my body. By the time they’re on the tree, I’m lying on the couch with a heating pad, half regretting even starting. But then I catch my kids’ wide-eyed faces, or see the glow against the window, and for a moment, the pain fades.

2. “The Uninvited Guest at the Table”

Christmas dinner feels like a contradiction. Surrounded by love and laughter, I’m also quietly navigating how long I can sit before the ache starts. Someone asks me to pass the gravy, and lifting it makes my arms scream. I smile and joke through it, because explaining again feels harder than just bearing it. Chronic pain may be invisible, but on holidays like these, it’s my constant companion.

3. “The Joy of Saying No”

It took years to learn that I don’t have to do it all at Christmas. One year, I was so flared up that I had to cancel hosting dinner. I thought I was ruining Christmas, but my family showed up with food and love. It reminded me that sometimes, Christmas magic is about letting people care for you.

4. “Silent Nights”

The world quiets down on Christmas Eve. For me, it’s the one night I don’t feel pressured to explain my pain or keep up with the world. Sitting in the glow of the tree, with hot tea in hand and soft blankets, I don’t feel left out of the celebration. In that stillness, I find peace that no holiday hustle can provide.

5. “The Double-Edged Sword of Family Time”

Christmas gatherings can be joyful, but also exhausting. There’s the awkward moment when a well-meaning relative asks, “Are you better yet?” or when someone offers unsolicited advice on curing my pain. I’ve learned to laugh it off and gently redirect, but it’s always a bittersweet reminder of the gap between their understanding and my reality.

6. “Decking the Halls, Fibro-Style”

Decorating for Christmas used to be one of my favourite traditions—pulling boxes from the attic, arranging ornaments, climbing ladders to hang lights. Now, I approach it differently. One year, I skipped the tree altogether and decorated a small potted plant instead. It felt like a loss at first, but when I looked at my little “tree” glowing warmly in the corner, I realised Christmas wasn’t about perfection—it was about adapting.

6. “Decking the Halls, Fibro-Style”

Decorating for Christmas used to be one of my favourite traditions—pulling boxes from the attic, arranging ornaments, climbing ladders to hang lights. Now, I approach it differently. One year, I skipped the tree altogether and decorated a small potted plant instead. It felt like a loss at first, but when I looked at my little “tree” glowing warmly

in the corner, I realised Christmas wasn’t about perfection—it was about adapting.

7. “The Energy Budget”

Christmas is a season of abundance, but for me, everything comes at a cost. I’ve learned to “budget” my energy like money. If I bake cookies, I might have to skip the carol service. If I attend the family dinner, I can’t help clean up. Chronic pain has made me redefine what it means to give. Sometimes, my presence is the best gift I can offer.

8. “The Flare that Stole Christmas”

One Christmas Eve, I woke up in a full-blown fibro flare. Every joint throbbed, my skin felt sunburned, and fatigue weighed me down. I cried in frustration, mourning the plans I’d have to cancel. But that evening, my best friend showed up with leftovers from her family dinner and sat with me on the couch. We watched cheesy holiday movies, and I realised Christmas doesn’t have to look a certain way to feel special.

9. “The Gift of Saying No”

Chronic pain has made me a master of boundaries, especially at Christmas. I used to overcommit—attending every event, shopping for the perfect gifts, cooking elaborate meals—only to crash by Christmas Day. Now, I say no more often, and yes to things that bring true joy. It’s not easy, but every “no” creates space for a holiday I can actually enjoy.

10. “A Different Kind of Warmth”

On cold December nights, my fibromyalgia makes my muscles stiffen and ache even more. Hot water bottles, heated blankets, and a good cup of tea have become my survival kit. Last year, my partner surprised me with a set of Christmas-themed heat packs. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt like they saw my pain—and loved me through it.

11. “The Invisible Pain of Celebration”

Chronic pain is an invisible illness, which means I often hear, “You don’t look sick!” at family gatherings. The truth is, I’m smiling through a fog of pain and fatigue. I’ve learned to excuse myself when I need to lie down and to accept that I don’t have to prove my struggles to anyone. My health is not up for debate, even at Christmas dinner.

Andy Jeffrey