When I was a kid, Christmas Eve felt like a dare.
Try to sleep. Go ahead. See what happens.
The house was quiet in that suspicious way—parents whispering, lights glowing just enough, the tree humming in the corner like it knew something I didn’t. My brain ran laps. Presents. Morning. Santa logistics. The clock refuses to move. Every sound was a clue. Every creak meant everything.
Sleep was theoretical at best.
Back then, Christmas Eve traditions weren’t things you analyzed. They just happened. At church, wearing uncomfortable clothes. Candlelight. “Silent Night” sung slightly off-key. Back home for something warm to eat—I don’t remember Christmas Eve dinners because of all the work that our mom and my siblings went into preparing Christmas dinner. It was a month-long chore my mom gave us kids. More on that tomorrow.
We didn’t do the open-one-gift thing the night before, which is okay, because most of my friends who opened one gift said it was usually new pajamas. It was literally the only night of the year that all of the kids wanted to go to bed early. Our parents knew better and didn’t want to be woken up at 4:30 am: so regular bedtime, but no sleep.
The excitement was physical. Borderline unbearable.
Off the charts.
Watching It Happen Again — From the Other Side
Then something sneaky happens.
You grow up. You become the adult. And suddenly Christmas Eve isn’t happening to you—it’s happening around you.
You watch your child do the same restless pacing you once perfected—the same forced calm. The same questions are designed to extract information without looking obvious. You see it in their eyes—the electricity, the hope, the inability to comprehend waiting.
And instead of being annoyed (okay, maybe briefly), you feel… something else. Recognition. Memory. A strange tenderness you didn’t expect.
Because you know how this night feels, you’ve lived inside it. And now you’re standing there, pretending bedtime matters, knowing full well it doesn’t.
The Traditions That Stick Around
What’s funny is how many Christmas Eve traditions survive the years mostly intact. Not because they’re sacred. Because they work.
Church, for many families, still anchors the night. Candlelight services. Familiar hymns. Kids holding candles like tiny liabilities. A quiet pause before everything explodes into wrapping paper the next day.
Food, of course, plays a massive role during the holiday, and Christmas Eve is no different. But it’s softer than Christmas Day: less production, more togetherness. No selfies with the beautiful table setting – that’s for the big day, tomorrow.
And then there’s the one present. The appetizer gift. Just enough to take the edge off without ruining the morning. Pajamas, books, something sentimental. A controlled release of joy.
When New Traditions Sneak In
Somewhere along the line, new rituals arrive. Not announced. Not planned. They just… stay.
In our house, that tradition became watching It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve.
This was not my idea.
Our adult son insists on it. Every year. No debate. And somehow—despite the runtime, despite knowing every beat, despite claiming it’s “long”—and I love it. We settle in. Lights low. Familiar lines are landing differently now than they did before.
The movie hits harder as you age. Funny how that works.
It’s no longer about wishes. It’s about perspective. About looking back and realizing the life you built—the noisy, imperfect, love-filled one—was the point all along.
Christmas Eve Across the Country — Same Night, Different Feel
Christmas Eve traditions also shift depending on where you are.
In the Midwest, it’s structured. Church early. Dinner on time. One gift. Quiet night. Snow, if you’re lucky.
In the Northeast, it stretches late into the night. Midnight services. Old churches. Long meals. A sense that the atmosphere matters as much as the event.
Down South, Christmas Eve is social. People stop by. Food keeps coming. Faith is present but conversational. Less silence, more laughter.
Out West, it’s a little looser. Traditions are chosen, not inherited. Maybe church, maybe not. Walks instead of drives. Movies playing in the background while life unfolds.
Different flavors. Same core. Family. Memory. Waiting.
The Longest Night (In the Best Way)
Eventually, the house gets quiet again. The child finally sleeps. The adults sit longer than planned. The tree lights glow. Stockings hang heavy with possibility. You take one last look around, knowing this version of Christmas Eve won’t last forever.
None of them do.
But that’s the trick. Christmas Eve isn’t about freezing time. It’s about noticing it. Feeling the handoff—from excitement to responsibility, from child to parent, from tradition received to tradition created.
And somewhere between sleepless nights and well-worn movies, you realize something simple and oddly comforting:
Christmas Eve still works.
We experience it differently now…
Sleep tight and Merry Christmas!