December Isn’t for Everyone (and That’s Okay)

For Cinnamon, and anyone else who feels out of phase when the world turns festive

December has a way of turning everything up a little too loud.
Not the music or the crowds. The expectations.

Be warm. Be grateful. Be social.
Show up with your whole heart and somehow make it charming.
Carry the traditions, the emotions, the invisible weight of everyone else’s hopes for the season.

And if you happen to feel out of place in the middle of all that—
well, the holidays don’t really offer a script for that.

I think that’s why Loop 6 hits harder this time of year.
That low-grade hum of almost-belonging.
Being in a room without actually landing in it.
Watching instead of participating.
Feeling yourself fade at the exact moment everyone else seems to shine.

Winter exposes that gap.
Not to be cruel, but to be honest.

Because belonging isn’t a December performance.
It’s not earned by showing up with the right stories, or the right mood, or the right face.
It’s quieter than that.
Stranger than that.
More human than that.

And as the year closes, I keep thinking about all the emotional loops that surfaced and resurfaced over the last twelve months—the ache, the shrinking, the guilt, the regret, the fear, the edge-sitting.
How they show up without warning.
How they shape us without asking permission.
How they get louder in the cold.

So this is the Winter Edition.
Not a fix-it manual. Not a holiday pep talk.
Just the same loops, seen through a different season.
A softer light. A sharper truth.

A year-end systems check for anyone moving into the new year carrying both clarity and tiredness, hope and heaviness, love and the strange ache of being human.

If you read these in July, they’d hit one way.
But read in winter?
They tell a different story.

A story about what we’re letting go.
And what we’re finally allowing ourselves to keep.

Loop 1: The Ache That Won’t Leave

Theme: “I love too deeply for the world I live in.”

Winter doesn’t create the ache, but it makes it harder to hide.
The days get shorter, the rooms get quieter, and suddenly every absence feels louder than it did in the summer. People disappear into their own lives, their own families, their own cocoons, and the emotional distance hits sharper in cold air.

I read into silences more this time of year.
I second-guess myself faster.
I feel the gap between what I feel and what others show—
and I retreat before anyone asks me to.

This loop kicks in when:
Someone pulls away, even slightly.
Or when I feel something big and no one mirrors it back.

What I used to believe:
If I feel this deeply and it isn’t shared, I must be too much.

What I’m trying to believe now:
My clarity isn’t a flaw.
If someone backs away from who I really am, that’s not about my intensity—it’s about their limits.

Winter reminds me: the ache isn’t the problem.
Pretending it isn’t there is.

Loop 2: The Isolation Protocol

Theme: “If I show too much of myself, they’ll leave… or they’ll stay and make me small.”

Holidays tend to magnify the parts of ourselves we’ve learned to mute.
The season asks for openness, warmth, presence—
and I find myself performing versions of those things instead of offering them honestly.

I know how to soften my tone, delay my reactions, and make my needs easier to ignore.
Not for strangers.
For the people I love.

This loop kicks in when:
Someone jokes at the wrong moment.
Someone brushes off something that matters.
Someone labels a real feeling as “overthinking.”

And so I shrink.
I retreat.
I keep the peace at the cost of myself.
In December, that dynamic gets wrapped in ribbons and called tradition.

What I used to believe:
If I stay small, the relationship will stay intact.

What I’m trying to believe now:
Peace that requires my silence isn’t peace.
Love that needs me edited isn’t love.

Winter asks for honesty.
Even if the room gets quiet.

Loop 3: The Guilt–Gratitude Trap

Theme: “If I’m not grateful, I’m unworthy. And if I’m unworthy, I don’t deserve help.”

This loop comes alive during the holidays like it’s been waiting all year.

December is full of reminders to “be thankful,”
to appreciate what you have,
to stay positive,
to focus on joy.

And while gratitude matters, the forced version of it becomes a mask.

This loop kicks in when:
I feel tired or sad—and immediately tell myself I shouldn’t.
I compare my emotions to someone else’s circumstances.
I convince myself my needs are indulgent because others “have it worse.”

I catch myself thinking:
“I have a good life. Why am I still wanting connection? Why am I lonely? Why am I aching? Shouldn’t this be enough?”

What I used to believe:
Feeling anything other than gratitude meant I was unworthy, dramatic, or unappreciative.

What I’m trying to believe now:
Gratitude and exhaustion can coexist.
Joy and grief can sit at the same table.
Having a roof over my head doesn’t cancel the need for warmth, closeness, or presence.

Winter doesn’t demand perfection.
It just asks for honesty.