“Did you get what you wanted for Christmas?”
It sounds like a simple question—until you notice how often it isn’t about presents at all. It’s about the day we wanted. The family we wanted. The feeling we wanted. And sometimes, if we’re honest, the version of ourselves we wanted to be.
So before we go any further, here’s a small permission slip: whatever you felt this Christmas—joy, relief, numbness, grief, irritation, gratitude, longing—you don’t have to argue with it. You can tell the truth about it.
I find Christmas difficult because of all the expectations. Not just the obvious ones—travel plans, meals, gatherings—but the invisible ones: how everyone should feel, how the house should sound, how family should behave, how I should show up. When expectations start stacking up, I tend to withdraw. It feels safer to disappear than to be drafted into a script I didn’t write.
This year I framed it playfully online—sharing a Grinch-themed post with “Keith Grinch” and the caption: “I’m letting my inner Grinch handle Christmas this year.”
Not as an act of cynicism, but as a small confession: I’m not going to force myself into a performance. I entered the holiday with “no expectations”—or at least that was the plan—and I genuinely felt more at peace.
Then the day happened.
We were all sick. Plans collapsed. My wife and I were supposed to travel to Michigan to be with her sister. My mom was supposed to be with my sister and grandkids. Instead, we were cooped up at home recovering—no gatherings, no big table, no familiar rhythms.
I tried to meet it with a shrug: This is fine. No expectations.
And yet, inside, there was still a battle. A deep pull to withdraw.
My mom voiced sadness—missing my dad, who passed away less than two years ago. My wife voiced sadness too—missing her family, and feeling the ache of spending Christmas without the warmth of her Colombian culture around her. Their disappointments weren’t unreasonable. They were human.
But I felt myself tighten. Disappointment rose. A thought flashed through me—honest and ugly:
They’re going to ruin the day.
That thought wasn’t fair. But it was real. And when it surfaced, it showed me something I didn’t want to see:
Even when I said I had “no expectations,” I had a hidden one.
My expectation was that if I had no expectations, the day would feel happy—or at least lighter. I secretly believed that if I tried hard enough to be easygoing, I could keep sadness and difficulty from taking up space. I thought it should be less. I thought their pain shouldn’t be showing up like this.
And that’s when my Shifu’s wisdom (my Daoist teacher) walked straight into my living room:
"Expectations are premeditated disappointments".
Because when I premeditate how the day should feel, I’m quietly preparing my disappointment in advance. I’m not meeting what’s real; I’m meeting my private comparison between reality and the script in my head.
That’s where “should” enters.
My Shifu also says, “Never should all over yourself.”
It’s funny because it’s true. The “shoulds” come straight out of expectations:
What others believe you should do
What you believe you should do to meet their expectations
What you believe the day should be, so no one is upset
What people should feel, so you don’t feel blamed
For me, the loudest should sounded like this: “Zulima shouldn’t react like this.”
But underneath that sentence was fear. Not moral clarity—fear.
If she’s disappointed, she’ll blame me.
If she’s sad, I failed.
If this feels hard, I’m the cause.
And suddenly I wasn’t in a living room anymore. I was in a courtroom, trying to avoid a verdict. The charge, in my mind, was something like: guilty of ruining Christmas.
So I wanted to escape—not because I didn’t care, but because I felt trapped.
That’s the moment I needed a different path. Not a better outcome—a better orientation.
There’s a Daoist way of naming what was happening in me: when we cling to preferences—when we need the day to be this and not that—we lose responsiveness. We stop moving with life and start wrestling it. Not force with hands, but force with expectations. Force with inner arguments about how reality is failing to cooperate.
So what’s the alternative?
One of the most practical sayings my Shifu shared,
"Lower your expectations. Raise your standards!"
At first that can sound like motivational poster wisdom—until you test it on a real holiday.
An expectation tries to control the outcome:
“Everyone will feel good.”
“No one will be disappointed.”
“This will go smoothly.”
A standard governs my conduct:
“I will be present.”
“I will not react to another person’s feelings.”
“I will not demand that grief, homesickness, or disappointment stay quiet so I can be comfortable.”
Standards don’t guarantee a pleasant day. They make it possible to be a steady person in an unpleasant moment.
In Daoist language, this is closer to wu wei—not “do nothing,” but acting without the tight fist of control. Responding to what is actually happening instead of insisting reality match the plan in your head.
And it aligns with ziran—letting things be “self-so,” allowing what is natural to arise without treating it like a threat to your identity.
This is where I saw my mistake: I thought I had set a standard, but I had smuggled in a should. My hidden logic was: If I’m easygoing enough, everyone will go along. That’s not a standard. That’s bargaining with the universe.
A real standard would have sounded like this:
If my wife grieves, I will stay.
If my mother misses my father, I will stay.
If disappointment sits down in the room, I will not treat it as an enemy.
And in the moment, “staying” can be incredibly ordinary. It can look like one slow breath before you speak. It can look like releasing the urge to correct someone’s mood. It can look like a simple sentence that doesn’t fix anything but refuses to abandon love:
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry it hurts.”
“We can miss them together.”
There’s another Daoist image that helps me: the usefulness of an open vessel. Emptiness isn’t lack; it’s capacity. The heart that isn’t packed full of preferences has room to hold what arises without collapsing into reactivity.
That’s what I wanted to offer them: not a fixed Christmas, but a steady presence.
I didn’t do it perfectly. I felt pressure. I felt anger. I felt like my effort was in vain when I couldn’t make it “right.” But the clarity afterward was a gift: my old strategy is to withdraw to avoid expectations; my deeper work is to choose who I will be when disappointment shows up in the room.
So—did you get what you wanted for Christmas?
Maybe a better question is: What did Christmas reveal about what you were trying to control? What “shoulds” were you carrying—quietly, faithfully, even nobly? And what standards—rooted in your values—could help you meet the next hard moment without becoming brittle, resentful, or absent?
New Year’s Eve is coming.
What are your standards for that night—your way of staying human, steady, and kind?
And if grief or disappointment shows up at the table, what would it look like to make room for it…without letting it steer the whole room?
May the year begin with less forcing—and more presence.
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