Keeping Up Was Never the Point

December has always been special in our home, full of traditions we return to year after year.

On Christmas Eve, we make the Feast of the Seven Fishes with cupcakes for dessert. Christmas Day is reserved for prime rib and Boston cream pie. And on the “third day of Christmas,” December 26th, which is also my husband’s birthday, we gather again for a full pasta feast and devil dogs.

The rhythm matters to us.

The repetition.

The way these meals anchor us to each other and to time.

When our daughters were three and four, my husband and I decided to introduce Elf on the Shelf as part of that rhythm. In our house, the elf arrives after Thanksgiving, stays through Christmas Eve, and according to the rules returns to the North Pole each night, magically reappearing in a new spot by morning.

The girls took it seriously right away. They named her Joy. They understood they couldn’t touch her or she would lose her magic. And they delighted in waking up each morning to see where Joy had landed overnight.

Some days, Joy was tucked into my coffee mug. The girls giggled at that one, well aware of how essential my morning coffee routine was.

Another morning, she sat on the counter holding an open bag of M&M’s, a small trail of candy spilled beside her. Once, they found her sitting in a Barbie car, as if she’d taken it for a joyride while they slept.

We thought we were being clever.

Then there was the day Joy didn’t move.

One of the girls had accidentally touched her.

The reaction was immediate and devastating. They were inconsolable, terrified that Joy had lost her magic. Tears, the kind of heartbreak that shows up when the rules feel absolute and the stakes feel enormous.

We scrambled.

I talked to my friends to find a resolution, and I learned about the idea of restoring an elf’s magic. That night, we went to the grocery store for a special spice blend. We placed it carefully beside Joy. We held hands and danced in a small circle around her, singing a Christmas carol, earnest and hopeful.

The girls watched closely, waiting for something to happen.

By morning, Joy had moved again.

Relief washed through the house. At the time, it felt like a small parenting save, a way to repair a mistake without shame.

I didn’t realize then how much that moment mattered.

We moved on.

December kept going.

Life returned to its usual pace.

Between work, long commutes, and life with two young daughters, remembering to keep the magic going every night felt like a lot. December is a long stretch when you’re already moving fast just to get out the door in the morning, singing socks and shoes, socks and shoes to keep everyone on track.

And then came the scrolling.

Social media was full of elves doing things we hadn’t even imagined. Some were mischievous, leaving elaborate messes behind. Shoes zip-tied together. A toilet covered in Saran Wrap. Marshmallows scattered across the living room after a full-blown “snowball fight.”

There were photos every day.

Captions.

Evidence of a level of effort that felt… staggering.

I remember stopping on one post and thinking about the logistics alone.

The planning.

The setup.

The cleanup.

Taking the picture.

Posting it.

And then doing it all over again for the next morning.

We could barely manage to remember to move Joy at all.

What I didn’t notice yet was how easily care could slip into self-doubt, how something that had felt loving and enough could start to feel insufficient.

And somewhere in that moment, without anyone saying it out loud, something shifted.

The thought came quietly, almost embarrassed to announce itself.

What are we doing wrong?

It arrived as judgment: quiet, internal, and hard to name.

We weren’t trying to compete. We were trying to create something warm and joyful for our girls. And beneath that was something heavier.

We’re not good enough.

That thought didn’t stay contained to the elf. It spread quietly, attaching itself to everything else we were already carrying.

At that point in our lives, my days were long. I worked in Boston and spent three and a half hours commuting each day, taking a boat across the harbor and back. I ate lunch at my desk so I could leave on time and get home to see our girls before bedtime.

Evenings were short and precious, measured in minutes more than hours.

The standard had shifted without my consent, and I hadn’t realized it until I was already behind.

Some of the families posting those elaborate elf scenes had support built in. We didn’t.

There was no one dropping by to take something off our plate. Most days, it was just us, doing our best to keep everything moving.

But none of that support appeared in those photos.

Without that context, what we were giving suddenly didn’t feel like enough.

I must be doing something wrong.

That reaction wasn’t about the elf.

It doesn’t arrive as cruelty. It arrives quietly, pulling you toward measuring your worth against someone else’s capacity, your pace against a life that looks easier from the outside.

What I was reacting to wasn’t the tradition.

It was the expectation underneath it.

That care should look effortless.

Nothing about our effort had changed.

Only the way I was keeping score.

And somewhere in that pressure, my pace stopped feeling like it belonged to my life.

I moved faster.

Less steady.

Less sure.

I had believed that care could restore what felt broken.

Somewhere along the way, that belief got crowded out.

I’m learning that catching up isn’t the point.

What matters is staying attuned.

Listening.

Responding to what this life can actually hold.

You are not behind.

You are responding.