Crate Expectations: The same box, every year.

There is a particular kind of pressure that arrives every December, almost as predictable as the myriad lights and endless lists. That little "gift" that slips quietly into our thoughts before we’ve even noticed its pre-paid weight. "This year, it has to feel magical. This year, I'll get a real tree. A big one. This year, I’ll get it right..."

...And without meaning to, we place ourselves at the centre of a silent soliloquy of performance - one where the audience is everyone we love, and the critic is the voice in our own heads.

It’s strange, really, how quickly those sneaky imposters called "expectations" can turn something meant to be joyful into something that feels suspiciously like work. I have decided that we don’t talk about this even nearly enough: the invisible perfectionism that creeps into the holiday season. The belief that we are responsible for creating the perfect everything, perfect memories, perfect moments, perfect goose, perfect gravy. That if one thing goes wrong - the meal, the gift, the mood - then somehow we’ve failed as the curators of the perfect Christmas.

Expectation is the "gift" we keep giving ourselves, in the same box, every year. But expectations are actually nothing more than planned resentments. Festive turds, wrapped in the ribbon of illusion - that if we try hard enough, we can orchestrate the optimal, flawless experience for everyone. But perfectionism, as we should remind ourselves more often, is never about healthy striving. It’s about protection. It’s the armour we put on to avoid the spectre of judgement, or disappointment - mostly our own, but especially everyone else’s.

Christmas perfectionism is particularly pernicious, because it disguises itself in the cloak thoughtfulness. "I just want everyone to be happy. I just want this one to feel special."

But perfectionism steals the very thing we’re trying to create: Christmas Presence. It robs us of the ability to be here - really here - because we’re too busy managing, adjusting, trimming, sieving, fixing, stiring, performing. We aren’t experiencing the moment; we’re monitoring it.

Expectation pushes us forward into what should be. Presence brings us back to what is.

And what is - in its highest calling - is imperfect, human, slightly chaotic, occasionally emotional, oft hilarious, and always more memorable than anything we could have essentially stage managed.

The irony? The moments we most cherish, rarely come from perfection. They come from accident and comical spontaneity. They are the Chirstmas pud burned to oblivion, the dog eating the After Eights, the fart at Midnight Mass.

This year, perhaps the invitation is to lower the bar - not to put it down altogether - we Brits still like a well-set table - but perhaps not let the bar be a barrier. To lean into a bit of messy. A touch of "that is just going to have to do.." To let the conversation drift. To doze off. To participate, not produce.

The real magic this Christmas will be both very human and very unpolished - the gift we all want to open. The version of our slightly-in-the-lurch, imperfect selves. The you that is not burdened with expectations but fully available for connection. At the end of the (Christmas) day, perfection has never created belonging, but Christmas presence always does.