Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year because it’s a season filled with warmth, connection, and traditions that bring people together. From the twinkling lights and festive decorations to the joy of giving and reflecting on the year, the Christmas music and cookies, get togethers and gift exchanges, it’s a time that feels both magical and meaningful.

Growing up as part of the Independent Fundamental Baptist (IFB) church, the holiday season was packed with traditions that filled every corner of my life. From the moment Thanksgiving ended, the church sprang into a whirlwind of festive activities, each designed to foster connection, celebrate the season, and, of course, glorify God. For years, these moments were not just traditions—they were my foundation for what Christmas was supposed to look and feel like.

I loved decorating the church. It was a group effort, a tradition that kicked off the holiday season. Members of the congregation gathered together to hang garlands, string lights, and place nativity scenes just so. The sanctuary, usually simple and bare, transformed into a glowing reflection of the holiday spirit, and the work itself was as much a joy as the finished product. It wasn’t just about the decorations; it was the fellowship, the laughter, and the shared excitement for the season.

Each year there was a Christmas cantata. Whether I was performing as a character in the play portion, singing in the choir or helping behind the scenes, they always brought a sense of purpose and joy. The cantata had a special way of connecting the church body, weaving together stories that aimed to remind us of the true meaning of Christmas and songs that were fun to sing and listen to. From memorizing lines to rehearsing songs, the entire process felt sacred, like we were preparing a gift not just for the congregation but for God Himself.

And then there was caroling as a child . Every December, groups from the church would bundle up and head to local nursing homes to sing Christmas hymns. It was a humbling, heartwarming experience to see the smiles of residents who often didn’t have visitors. The songs were simple, but their impact was profound, and there was something deeply fulfilling about spreading a little joy during what could otherwise be a lonely season for some.

Christmas Eve services were a big part of our Christmas tradition. The stillness, the reverence, the candle lit service of the familiar readings of the Christmas story from the book of Luke—it all felt so important. I can still picture the warm glow of candlelight filling the sanctuary during the singing of the Christmas hymns. It was a moment of awe and connection, a reminder of why we celebrated in the first place. We were all about to go off and celebrate with our separate families, but for that moment with our voices rising together in unison we were all a close community celebrating together.

But now, for me, all of that is gone. Leaving the IFB community changed the way I experience Christmas. It’s not that I don’t still find joy in the holiday season—I absolutely do—but there’s an undeniable gap where those traditions used to be. Decorating my home with my family is enjoyable, but it is not the same as the camaraderie of decorating the church with dozens of others. Watching holiday movies or singing along to Christmas carols is one of my favorite things to do. And while I still attend Christmas Eve services at a different church, the experience feels different from what I knew all of those years. The people around me are kind and welcoming, but it’s not the same deep-rooted community I grew up with.

Over time, I’ve started creating new traditions. I’ve discovered the beauty of a quiet Christmas morning, sipping coffee by the tree while reflecting on the year. I’ve found joy in hosting small gatherings with friends, making space for authentic connection without the pressure of perfection. And while it’s taken time, I’m beginning to see that Christmas isn’t about where or how you celebrate—it’s about the love, peace, and joy you carry with you, no matter where life takes you.

Still, there are moments when the ache of what’s been lost resurfaces. I think that’s part of the process—learning to hold space for both gratitude and grief. While the traditions I once knew may no longer be part of my life, they shaped who I am and how I celebrate today. And as I continue to navigate this new chapter, I’m reminded that Christmas, at its core, is about hope—a hope that remains, even as the seasons of life change.

This gap is more than just nostalgia—it’s a reminder of the relationships and shared experiences that were intertwined with my faith. It’s not just about missing the activities; it’s about missing the sense of belonging, the feeling that I was part of something bigger. For years, Christmas was inseparable from the church, and without that framework, I’ve had to learn how to rebuild my holiday traditions in a way that feels meaningful to me without the church.