I’ve lived Christmas in two completely different realities — and depending on what year you caught me, I either loved it… or acted like the world was ending.
Growing up, Christmas in New England with Grandma was it.
The snow.
The real tree.
The mall in all its 90s glory (if you know, you KNOW).
The JCPenney catalog outfits.
The cookies.
All. Of. It.
So anytime Mom — who was a nurse and couldn’t always take the holiday off — said we’d be spending Christmas in Bermuda instead?
WHEW.
You would’ve thought someone cancelled December entirely. No snow? Palm Trees? Does Santa even know I’ll be here?!
One particular year stands out: not only did we have to have Christmas in Bermuda… I also broke my right arm and couldn’t be in the school Christmas play OR my Christmas dress. MISERY.
🎄😒
But here’s the twist:
Once I left for college, everything shifted. Spending Christmas in Bermuda became a luxury — warm air, ocean breeze, my little island home dressed up for the season. We started alternating years between Grandma’s house in Connecticut and home on the island, and honestly? It became the perfect rhythm.
Then Grandma passed in 2019. And Christmas stopped alternating. We’ve had every holiday in Bermuda since. I miss a New England Christmas morning — the sound of the heat kicking on, the coziness, the smell of a real tree and Grandma’s ceramic tree glowing in the corner. Those memories belong to her space, her voice, her presence.
For now — and maybe forever — I’ll take Bermuda.
Now here I am, flying home in a few days, in my usual packing frenzy — gifts, outfits, shoes, toiletries, snacks, chargers, the works. Somehow my suitcase always looks like I’m packing for a 45-day expedition instead of a holiday week. Maybe because, in a way, I am: one foot in New England tradition, one foot in island comfort, and my heart trying to hold both.
Christmas in two worlds.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade either one.
✨
