ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS…

…IS THE LUXURY OF UNSCHEDULED TIME

It may be an unusual place to start, but let me begin with a confession. A confession shouldn’t be controversial, but somehow still is, so here is mine: I love luxury. I truly do. I appreciate beautiful things. I notice craftsmanship. I enjoy well-made handbags, jewellery with substance, clothes that sit well on the body, and age gracefully. I like the elegance, quality, and the confidence that comes from things made with care rather than speed.

I don’t perceive this as a guilty pleasure. It’s simply taste – I would even dare call it good taste.

And yet, as the years go by, something interesting happens. Not because those things lose their beauty — they most certainly don’t — but because their role in what actually makes life feel rich becomes clearer. They are enjoyable. They are also optional. They are wants, not needs – although I will always prefer to keep warm in a cashmere jumper rather than in one made of polyester. But that distinction – wants vs. needs – matters far more than we usually care to admit.

Because when you strip away the aesthetics, the wrapping, the polish, and the performance, what remains — what consistently proves itself irreplaceable — is the pure luxury of time. Real-time. Time without an agenda. Time that doesn’t need to be optimised, justified, or turned into a story worth telling later.

Which is why, whenever my children ask me what I’d like for my birthday or for Christmas, my answer never changes. I don’t even hesitate, yet they still ask. I don’t negotiate. I ask for time with them. Not as a gesture. Not as a sentimental line. But because it is, quite simply, the most precious thing they can give me.

And yes, I do get time with them and a thoughtful gift, a three-course meal cooked by my son, and often some stunningly beautiful piece of pottery made by my daughter. But I am drifting off.

When Even Time Becomes a Performance

For me, Christmas is a time of year I truly love, and I know that for some, it has a particular way of becoming a challenge of perfection and performance. It takes perfectly reasonable intentions — connection, generosity, togetherness — and somehow inflates them until they become brobdingnagian expectations. And expectations, especially the brobdingnagian kind, have weight. They press down, create anxiety, and demand a well-balanced choreography.

Somewhere between the planning, the hosting, the cooking, the gifting, and the unspoken hope that this year will feel especially meaningful, the simple act of being together can start to feel like a logistical achievement rather than a human one. The luxury of time quickly becomes more elaborate than all the tasks at work combined.

There is often a (at first) subtle, collective agreement that Christmas should (or has to) be harmonious. Not just pleasant — harmonious. Conversations should flow easily – often a struggle when too much wine is flowing. Old tensions should stay politely buried. Everyone should be relaxed (whether they want to or not), grateful, fully present, and, of course, emotionally available, preferably right on schedule.

Nothing puts pressure on human relationships quite like the instruction to “just enjoy the moment.”

If that harmony doesn’t arise naturally, it can always be encouraged. Or managed. Or quietly enforced. Sometimes with good intentions. Sometimes with clenched teeth.

Misunderstood perfectionism is probably the biggest pitfall here.

The Gift Escalation Trap

Then there are the gifts.

Gifts are a lovely idea. A beautiful idea, even. They are meant to signal care, attention, and effort. And yet, in many families, they quietly slip into comparison. Bigger. Better. More thoughtful. More impressive. Occasionally, more expensive — although no one ever says that part out loud, and it can easily become the ultimate trap to ensure a Christmas Armageddon.

There is often this unspoken anxiety humming beneath the surface: Is this enough? Did we overdo it? Did we underdo it?

It’s a surprisingly efficient way to turn well-meaning generosity into – mild to extreme – performance anxiety.

Somewhere along the way, generosity acquired a performance metric.

Possibly with a spreadsheet, though no one has admitted to it quite yet.

It’s remarkable how quickly something meant to express warmth can turn into a silent (or not so silent) assessment. Even adults — especially adults — are not entirely immune to the quiet disappointment of thinking they got it wrong. Or the equally awkward guilt of realising they may have got it too right. Nothing says “Christmas spirit” quite like trying to look appropriately grateful while mentally recalculating what this implies for next year.

And this is where things become particularly ironic. Because even when someone genuinely says, “I don’t need anything — I’d just love to spend time together,” the collective nervous system doesn’t always relax.

Time, too, can become loaded.

Is it enough time?

Is it quality time?

Are we doing something truly meaningful with it?

Are we enjoying it convincingly enough?

At that point, even presence starts to feel like it requires supervision.

Why Capable People Find Holidays So Tiring

For people who are competent, responsible, and used to holding things together, this kind of environment is uniquely draining. Not because they don’t care — but because they do. They are often the ones reading the room, smoothing things over, adjusting tone, and quietly ensuring that nothing tips too far in any direction. Usually, while they insist continuously that they are “absolutely fine.”

They are skilled at this. Which is precisely why it costs them so much energy.

There is a particular fatigue that comes from managing emotional weather rather than tasks. From sensing what others need without being asked. From keeping things “nice and pleasant.”

In these cases, niceness, as it turns out, becomes a full-time job with very unclear working hours. Niceness, after all, is rarely as simple as it sounds.

These are the same skills that serve people well in leadership, in business, in life — and they do not switch off easily. Unfortunately, they also don’t come with an out-of-office reply.

So it shouldn’t surprise us that some people, quietly and with that touch of guilt, feel a liberating sense of relief when the holidays finally come to an end. Not because they dislike their families. Not because they don’t value connection. But because the pressure to make it “special” finally lifts, the performance can come to an end.

Work, by comparison, can feel almost restful and even peaceful. Expectations are clearer. Roles are defined. Conversations are more predictable.

After days of emotional choreography, even a meeting agenda can feel positively soothing. Hurray to structure!

The Strange Discomfort of Unscheduled Time

What all of this reveals is something we rarely talk about directly: unscheduled time is uncomfortable for many of us. Especially for those who are used to being needed or rarely allow themselves to shut down.

When nothing is planned, nothing is demanded, and nothing is expected, an unease can creep in. Without structure, we are left with ourselves. Without urgency, we notice what we usually rush past. Which explains why many people instinctively reach for their phones, or another task, or a reason to be useful.

And let’s face it, not everything we notice is immediately pleasant or soothing. It can be quite the opposite.

This is precisely why unscheduled time is such a luxury. Not because it is easy, but because it is honest.

It allows conversations to unfold rather than be steered. It makes space for laughter that isn’t forced and silence that isn’t awkward. It lets people arrive as they are, not as they think they should be.

And yes — sometimes it also reveals the cracks. The differences. The realities that don’t fit neatly into a festive narrative.

Reality, inconveniently, rarely checks the calendar first. If all else fails, you will with certainty have a story to tell.

Slowing Down Without Turning It Into a Project

The irony, of course, is that even slowing down has become something we try to do well. We read about it. Plan for it. Optimise it. Somewhere along the way, rest became another item on the to-do list.

Preferably colour-coded.

We are remarkably good at turning relief into responsibility and a task to be accomplished.

But unscheduled time resists that impulse. It doesn’t respond to effort. It can’t be managed into existence. It requires something far less dramatic: permission.

Permission to not fill every moment.

Permission to not fix every mood.

Permission to let things be imperfect and still worthwhile.

Permission, in other words, to stop managing ourselves (and others) for a while.

What Remains When the Performance Drops

When the performance drops — even briefly — something else becomes visible. A different kind of connection. One that isn’t dependent on everything going smoothly. One that doesn’t require everyone to be at their best.

It’s often quieter. Far less impressive – at least at first sight. Yet far more real.

This is also where reflection tends to emerge naturally. Not the forced kind — the annual accounting exercise disguised as insight — but that gentle noticing of what really matters when the noise is stripped away, what drains, and what actually sustains us. Perhaps you have had the pleasure of experiencing that kind of clarity that doesn’t announce itself, and therefore tends to last longer and feel so much better.

The Most Underrated Luxury

So perhaps luxury, at this time of year, doesn’t need to glitter. Perhaps it also doesn’t need to be wrapped, explained, or justified. Maybe it looks like long meals without an agenda, conversations that wander, board games played badly, or simply sitting together without trying to turn the moment into something it isn’t – which doesn’t make it less memorable.

It definitely makes it so much more difficult to photograph convincingly, though.

Unscheduled time isn’t indulgent or the perfect social media post. It’s restorative and invites us to return to ourselves and the ones we love.

And in a world that constantly demands performance — even in the name of joy — that may be the most valuable gift we can give, and receive.

If this feels uncomfortably familiar, consider it festive reassurance: you’re in good company.
Who does this make you think of?