The Gifts We Get Instead
By: Hollis Hartwell
When I was eight, I wanted a bike for Christmas.
Not just any bike: a Princess Sparkle Unicorncycle.
It had a hot-pink frame I could put my Lisa Frank stickers on, silver sparkly tassels coming out of the handlebars that would flutter in the breeze, and, perhaps the best part, a unicorn horn sticking right out of the front and a rainbow tail sticking right out of the seat.
Advertisements showed little girls in fantastical (albeit impractical) gowns speeding down the sidewalk with big smiles on their faces and tails flying in the wind.
That bike consumed my every waking thought.
It was all I wrote about for my school assignments and all I doodled on scrap pieces of paper.
That bike wasn’t just gorgeous, it represented a special kind of freedom that only a child could understand.
Did I mention the unicorn horn and tail?
Christmas morning came that year and I just knew that bike would be waiting for me. After all, I’d written Santa five times.
And yet, none of the gifts were Princess-Sparkle-Unicorncycle sized. They were package-of-ten-socks sized. They were Barbie-doll sized. They were pajamas-from-grandma sized.
My mom got a new vacuum.
My dad got a birdhouse.
My brothers got Nerf guns.
All was lost.
The last gift under the tree was a small brown envelope with my name scribbled on it. It couldn’t hold a bike, what did I care?
“Says go to the garage,” my dad said with a grin.
I sprinted through the sea of boxes and shredded paper, heart pounding with renewed hope—this was it!
Only when I got to the garage, it wasn’t.
Not really. Yes, there was a bike. But there was no unicorn horn or rainbow tail.
No tassels. It was purple, had pegs, and hanging on one handle was a pink helmet.
I deflated a little but put on a brave face as I snapped the helmet on my head.
Then, a Christmas miracle: My plastered-on smile turned to a real one the second I pedaled out the driveway and down the street to my best friend’s house (who spent the morning riding on the pegs I didn’t know I needed). I was a kid on a bike—though not the one I dreamed of—and life was perfect.
It wasn’t until years later that I found out in the weeks before that Christmas, the Princess Sparkle Unicorncycle had been recalled for safety issues. It turns out, having a tail hanging into the spokes of a spinning tire causes a little bit of an issue.
I haven’t thought of that bike in years, but this season has dug up all kinds of weird memories, this bike included. I had nothing I wanted and yet I was happy—really, truly happy. Much like this year.
My mission of the season was to uncover what magic—if any—remains if we distance ourselves from the things we’ve always done to celebrate Christmas. If I’m honest, I was hellbent on proving nothing would be left without doing the things we’ve always done.
I was convinced without the people we always spend time with and the traditions we always practice, there was absolutely no point of the season. In my narrow mind, it was black and white.
Because you, my wonderful readers, are far smarter than I am, I’m assuming most of you already knew I was wrong. Most of you probably read along and laughed at my ignorance. If you are one of the few like me who were a bit stubborn to budge on this stance, I’ll say it clearly: I got it all wrong.
Not only does so much remain, there’s so much room for growth. For reflection. For more.
I still believe Christmas is about traditions, but it’s the intention that matters more.
Why are we showing up in our sweaters with pans of cookies?
Is it because we care or because we care what other people think?
Because we love it or we love the idea of it?
Because it’s what we want to do or what we’ve always done?
The season, you see, is far from black and white. It’s an iridescent blend of reds, greens, and every other color that does or doesn’t shine from a strand of lights. It changes based on the light, on where we stand, on what we need.
No two seasons are the same, just like no two Christmases will be.
Whether the season greets us holding all our shattered pieces as we weep in a bowling alley or filled with so much joy we can barely contain it while we clap along Main Street looking for Santa, Christmas will bring with it what we need as long as we are willing to see it.
Maybe it’s a holiday club where you get to choose the way you celebrate.
Maybe it’s watching Die Hard at a drive-in.
Or, just maybe, it’s meeting someone who teaches you to lean into all the possibilities of traditions not yet formed.
And while this season I wasn’t longing for material gifts, I’m wondering if my expectations were a bit like they were for that bike.
I was so focused on what a perfect Christmas was supposed to look like for me—the traditions, the order of things, the very specific people doing these very specific things—that I had forgotten that it might not be what everyone else wanted it to look like.
Maybe not even what I wanted it to look like when I really thought about it.
All these years later, I know I ended up with the right bike. The gift I got instead of the one I wanted was exactly what I needed. It was perfect, really. Just like this Christmas.
I barged my way into The Holiday Club looking for one thing but finding another, forever changing how I will celebrate the holidays for the rest of my life.