New Year’s Eve has a particular stillness to it, a threshold moment where we pause with one foot in the familiar and the other hovering over what’s yet to come. It’s tempting to treat this night as a hard reset, as if everything behind us must be swept away to make room for something new. But wisdom rarely lives in extremes. It invites us to look back with honesty and tenderness, to notice what has shaped us, and to choose carefully what we carry forward.
Some things deserve to be packed gently for the journey ahead. Habits that have rooted us, relationships that have deepened us, moments of courage we didn’t know we had until they were asked of us. These are not accidental successes, they’re signs of growth, grace, and quiet perseverance. Carrying them forward isn’t clinging to the past, it’s honouring what has helped us become more fully ourselves.
And then there are the things it’s time to release. Old grudges that have grown heavy, patterns of thinking that shrink our hope, voices, including our own, that tell us we’re not enough. Letting go isn’t failure. It’s an act of trust, a decision to stop giving our energy to what no longer brings life.
As the year turns, we’re not asked to reinvent ourselves overnight. We’re invited to travel lighter, wiser, and more attentive. To keep what serves love, justice, and kindness, and to lay down what doesn’t. In that gentle discernment, we make space for God to meet us again, not as strangers to the future, but as people ready to step into it with intention and hope.
There’s a strong tendency in society, fuelled especially by advertising, to rush headlong towards whatever comes next. Novelty is prized, anticipation is monetised, and lingering is quietly discouraged. We’re nudged to believe that satisfaction lies just beyond the next purchase, the next upgrade, the next season. Christmas makes this habit particularly visible. Before the last crumbs of mince pie have been brushed away, the message has already shifted, sales banners change colour, playlists move on, and the glow of the season is treated as something faintly embarrassing to hold on to.
You see it most clearly when decorations come down well before Twelfth Night. What was meant to be a period of celebration and reflection is truncated, tidied away, and replaced with a brisk return to normality. In the hurry to move on, something gentle is lost. The slower rhythms of tradition invite us to dwell, to savour, and to let meaning settle. Resisting the rush, even briefly, becomes a quiet act of attentiveness, a reminder that not everything of value needs to be cleared away at speed.
But there’s also another way of seeing this, and it’s worth holding it alongside the longing to linger. Traditions can ground us, but they can also harden into habits that resist necessary change or growth. For some, moving quickly beyond Christmas isn’t a loss of meaning but an expression of renewal, a clearing of space for fresh starts and forward momentum that can be genuinely life-giving. Rather than framing this as a choice between tradition and progress, it may be wiser to hold a both-and approach, preserving what nourishes the soul while remaining open to change, even when that balance feels untidy and unresolved.
Holy Innocents’ Day confronts us with one of the darkest moments in the Christmas story. Matthew tells of Herod, fearful and threatened, ordering the slaughter of Bethlehem’s children, a brutal act of power seeking to silence hope. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, is an image that still aches with truth today. The birth of Christ is barely announced before violence erupts, reminding us that God’s love enters a world already wounded.
This day refuses to let faith drift into sentimentality. It insists we look honestly at the cost of injustice and the suffering of the vulnerable. The holy family themselves become refugees, fleeing by night into Egypt, carrying with them fear, uncertainty, and a fragile child who is nevertheless God-with-us. Jesus’ story begins not in safety, but in danger.
In our own time, the echoes are unmistakable. Children continue to suffer because of war, poverty, abuse, and neglect. From conflict zones where young lives are shattered, to quieter harms closer to home where children are unseen or unheard, the cry of the innocents has not faded. Holy Innocents’ Day calls us to resist becoming numb. It asks whether we are willing to notice, to grieve, and to act.
Yet this day is not only about sorrow. It also proclaims that God stands unequivocally with the vulnerable. The powers of violence do not get the final word. Even here, God’s purposes are quietly unfolding, carried forward by courage, compassion, and faithful care. Remembering the holy innocents invites us to align our lives with that divine tenderness, to protect, to speak out, and to nurture hope where it feels most fragile. In doing so, we honour those children, then and now, whose lives matter deeply to God.
The Sunday after Christmas often feels quieter, as though the world is catching its breath. The decorations are still up, but something has shifted. The miracle has happened, and now we’re left to ask what it means to live in its light.
Isaiah 63:7-9 remembers the steadfast love of the Lord, calling to mind all that God has done for God’s people, how in all their distress, God too was distressed, and the angel of his presence saved them. Christmas isn’t God visiting from a safe distance. It’s God stepping into human suffering, choosing nearness over comfort, solidarity over safety. The manger already casts the shadow of the cross, not as threat, but as promise: you are not alone.
Psalm 148 widens the lens. Everything is invited to praise, angels and stars, sea creatures and storms, children and elders alike. Praise here isn’t sentimental, it’s defiant. Creation sings because it has seen that God’s love doesn’t hover above the world but enters it. The baby in Bethlehem draws heaven and earth into a single song.
Hebrews 2:10-18 presses this even further. We’re urged to pay careful attention to what we’ve heard, because this God has shared our flesh and blood. Jesus isn’t ashamed to call us brothers and sisters. He knows fear, weakness, and death from the inside, and by doing so breaks their hold. Salvation, then, isn’t escape from humanity, it’s humanity healed from within.
So this Sunday invites us to linger. To notice the extraordinary humility of God, still wrapped in ordinariness. To keep praising, even when the song feels fragile. And to live attentively, awake to the truth that in Jesus, God has chosen to be with us, fully, faithfully, and forever.
Christmas Day brings the fulfilment of every Advent longing. The waiting, the watching, the yearning find their answer in a child wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. Here, in the most ordinary of places, heaven bends low and touches earth. The Word, through whom all things were made, takes on our frailty, our flesh, our story. Advent Christ is born.
The angels can’t keep silent. They break open the night sky with their song: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests.” Shepherds hurry from their fields, astonished that the good news is for them – poor, unprepared, overlooked – and yet chosen to be first witnesses of glory. Mary treasures all these things in her heart, as love made flesh rests in her arms.
This birth is no sentimental tale but a revolution of grace. God comes not in splendour or might, but in humility, to show that his kingdom is for the lowly and the broken, for those who hunger for mercy and long for hope. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” Not far off, not distant, but here – pitching his tent in the middle of our lives.
The candlelight of Advent now gives way to the blaze of Christmas morning. All the themes we’ve carried – hope, peace, joy, love – find their centre in Christ himself. He is the light that darkness cannot overcome, the peace that passes understanding, the joy that sings even in sorrow, and the love that will never let us go.
So we kneel with the shepherds, we rejoice with the angels, we wonder with Mary and Joseph, and we open our hearts to receive him. Advent Christ is born: God with us, now and always.
Christmas Eve arrives quietly, like breath on cold glass. The world slows, even if only for a moment, and listens. Streetlights glow a little softer, kitchens carry the memory of cinnamon and warmth, and the dark feels less like an ending and more like a cradle.
This is the night between, between longing and fulfilment, between promise and presence. We stand with tired hearts and hopeful hands, carrying the year we’ve lived, its griefs and its small, bright joys. Nothing needs to be fixed tonight. Nothing needs to be proven. Love doesn’t hurry.
Somewhere beneath the noise, a deeper truth hums. God doesn’t arrive with spectacle or certainty, but with vulnerability. Not above the mess, but within it. A child’s cry breaks the silence, and the universe leans in. Power chooses tenderness. Eternity borrows time.
Christmas Eve invites us to rest in that holy nearness. To believe that light can be born in the darkest places, including our own. To trust that gentleness is never wasted, and that hope, however fragile, is enough to carry us through the night.
So we wait. Candles ready. Hearts open. Tomorrow will come. For now, this is enough.
If you’re not looking forward to Christmas Day, you’re not broken and you’re not alone. For many people, this season brings pressure, noise, complicated family dynamics, painful memories, or the sharp ache of absence. The world tells us we should be joyful, grateful, and glowing, but real life doesn’t always follow the script.
It’s alright if you’re just getting through. It’s alright to keep the day small, to opt out of traditions, to say no, or to treat it like any other winter day. You don’t owe anyone cheerfulness or explanations. Be kind to yourself in the ways you can, a walk, a familiar film, a quiet moment, or a message to a trusted friend.
Christmas is just one day, not a measure of your worth or your faith, strength, or character. However you survive it is enough. You matter, deeply and genuinely, today and every day that follows.
Christmas carries a strange mix of light and weight. The lights sparkle, the music drifts through shops, and yet the pressure quietly builds. Expectations pile up, family dynamics resurface, money feels tighter, and the calendar fills faster than it ever should. Reducing stress at Christmas begins by noticing that much of it comes not from the season itself, but from what we think it ought to be.
One gentle step is permission, permission to simplify. Not every tradition needs to be honoured every year, not every invitation needs a yes, and not every table needs to look like a magazine spread. Choosing fewer things and doing them with care can be deeply freeing. Rest is not laziness at Christmas, it’s wisdom.
It also helps to ground yourself in small, ordinary moments. A quiet walk in cold air, a mug warming your hands, a familiar song played just for you. These pauses remind the nervous system that it’s safe to slow down. Breathing more deeply, even for a minute, can interrupt the rush and bring you back into your body.
Connection matters too, but it doesn’t have to be perfect. Honest conversations, lowered expectations, and a bit of humour can soften tense edges. If grief or loneliness surfaces, let it be acknowledged rather than pushed away. Christmas doesn’t erase hard feelings, it sits alongside them.
Finally, remember that the season passes. The world doesn’t hinge on one meal, one gift, or one day. Kindness to yourself, as much as to others, is perhaps the most meaningful Christmas practice of all.
People don’t say “Happy Holidays” because they’re ashamed of Christmas. They say it because several holidays occur around the same time – Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year, and others. Using an inclusive greeting simply recognises the reality of multiple celebrations happening at once. Yet somehow, this has been framed as a cultural threat.
In truth, the areas often criticised for saying “Happy Holidays” tend to be more economically productive, globally connected, and culturally diverse. People there interact daily with neighbours, colleagues, and strangers who don’t look, worship, or live exactly as they do. Exposure to different traditions isn’t threatening, it’s normal. Acknowledging others’ celebrations doesn’t diminish your own.
Graphics or narratives that suggest otherwise aren’t educational. They are carefully packaged branding, a form of grievance marketing designed to create division rather than understanding. When such messaging forms the bulk of someone’s information diet, it shapes their perception of the world in a narrow and fearful way.
Loving Christmas and recognising why “Happy Holidays” exists aren’t contradictory. They can coexist comfortably, reflecting both personal tradition and social awareness. Inclusivity doesn’t erase identity; it affirms that in a shared world, multiple stories and celebrations can exist side by side.
So this season, there’s no need to choose between joy and acknowledgment. You can celebrate what you love while respecting others’ traditions. In doing so, the message is clear: kindness, curiosity, and understanding matter more than cultural grievance. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
Just Another Missing Person (Gillian McAllister) isn’t ‘just’ a mystery about another missing person. There are several narrators, with many twists and turns right up to the last page. An enjoyable read that will keep you guessing.
Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex (Mary Roach) is an enlightening and humorous romp through a taboo subject, be prepared for grimaces and shocks along the way.
The Unseen (Roy Jacobsen) is a universal story about identity, resilience, and the tension between place and possibility. It follows the quiet yet elemental life of Ingrid Barrøy, a girl growing up on a remote Norwegian island in the early 20th century, where her family survives by the rhythm of the sea and seasons. As Ingrid matures, she begins to question her place in this isolated world, torn between the harsh beauty of her home and the pull of the unknown beyond the horizon. A deeply affecting portrait of a family clinging to a place that simultaneously sustains them and seals them off. It combines introspective narratives, minimalist yet evocative writing, and historical explorations of how ordinary lives intersect with nature’s grandeur.
The Surgeon (Tess Gerritson) is a chilling medical thriller about a meticulous serial killer who stalks and murders women in a ritualistic way, leaving behind surgical precision and no clues. As Detective Thomas Moore and trauma surgeon Dr Catherine Cordell (herself a past survivor) get closer to the truth, they discover the killer may be re-enacting her darkest nightmare.
Before I Go to Sleep (S. J. Watson) is a psychological thriller about Christine, a woman who wakes up every day with no memory of her past, relying on notes and the people around her to piece together her life. As she gradually uncovers the truth, she realises that those she trusts most may be hiding dangerous secrets.
Orbital (Samantha Harvey) is a short, poetic novel set aboard the International Space Station, following six astronauts over the course of a single 24-hour period as they circle Earth sixteen times and reflect on existential and planetary themes including the meaning of life, the divine, and climate change.
The Blue Hour (Paula Hawkins) is set on a remote Scottish tidal island, where a curator discovers a possible human bone in a sculpture, pulling together a vanished husband, a scholar, and an old companion into a web of secrets told through shifting timelines. It’s atmospheric and unsettling, exploring art, obsession, and power.
Upgrade (Blake Crouch) is a high-concept science fiction thriller that explores the limits of human evolution and the ethical boundaries of genetic engineering. It follows a man whose DNA is forcibly altered, forcing him to confront what it means to be human in a world where perfection may be the deadliest flaw.
The Traitors (Alan Connor) is an interactive tie-in book to the hit TV series that turns the show’s themes of deception, trust and betrayal into a choose-your-own adventure game, inviting readers to make strategic decisions as they navigate social deduction and shifting alliances. It blends the psychological tension and cunning of the Traitors franchise with puzzle-like scenarios that test logic, intuition, and group dynamics for individual or group play.
While You Sleep (Stephanie Merritt) is a haunting psychological thriller that explores the fine line between sanity and madness, and the shadows that the past can cast over the present. Set on a remote Scottish island, it’s a story steeped in isolation, grief, and the uneasy interplay between reason and the supernatural.
Into the Water (Paula Hawkins) is a layered exploration of memory, fear, and the stories we tell to survive, tracing how a small town’s buried secrets rise like mist from the river that binds it. Hawkins weaves a tense, multi-voiced narrative shaped by trauma, suspicion, and the haunting pull of the past.
Blood Stream (Luca Veste) is a tense, contemporary thriller exploring how fear, media manipulation, and the hunger for spectacle can turn a city against itself, as a mysterious outbreak of violence pushes people to question what’s real and who they can trust. Through its gripping plot and shifting perspectives, the novel reflects on the dangers of conspiracy thinking and the fragility of social cohesion.
Max Verstappen (James Gray) explores the extraordinary rise of the Dutch Formula 1 phenomenon whose fierce competitiveness, innate talent, and single-minded determination have redefined modern racing. The book captures not only his achievements and records but also the mindset, family dynamics, and controversies that shape one of the sport’s most compelling figures.
Night Sky Almanac 2025 (Radmila Topalivic, Storm Dunlop & Wil Tirion) is a yearbook I wouldn’t be without; each year’s edition is always by my side.
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