The Pressure to Be Cheerful: A Real Talk Christmas Podcast

Feeling the pressure to be cheerful this Christmas? You’re not alone. In this episode, Shelley takes a heartfelt look at the unspoken challenges of the festive season. 

Shelley offers practical tips on how to navigate the holiday stress, such as saying no without guilt, celebrating small wins, and focusing on genuine connections. 

Shelley’s anecdotes about her uninvited feline visitor, Henry, add a touch of humour and warmth to the discussion. While sharing a poignant story about finding peace in small moments, Shelley encourages you to embrace imperfection and be kind to yourself.

This episode is a gentle reminder that you don’t have to fake cheerfulness to meet others' expectations. Instead, it's about finding your own light amidst the chaos. So, if you're feeling overwhelmed this Christmas, this episode might just be the comforting companion you need.

🎧 Tune in now and let’s make this Christmas a little more real, together.

Transcript

The Pressure to Be Cheerful at Christmas

Today, I want to discuss the unspoken pressure to feel cheerful during this season. The holidays can be a magical time, but they can also be really tough for some of us. So today, I’m exploring how small acts of self-kindness can help us find a little positivity when it feels like we might be bringing Christmas down.

Hi, I’m Shelley Treacher and this is the Stress and Anxiety Recovery Podcast. If this is your first time joining me, welcome. You’re in exactly the right place to find a little calm and magic amidst the chaos of a family Christmas. And if you’re one of my regular listeners, thank you for sticking with me.

I’ve been busy focusing on delivering therapy sessions, partly due to the popularity of this podcast. but I’ve missed podcasting and hearing from you.

Before we dive into today’s topic, let me be honest. This hasn’t been an easy year for me either. This wasn’t the Christmas card kind of year for me. The first half was brutal. If you’re a regular listener, you know that I lost my beloved cat.

What you won’t know is that one of my best friends passed away as well. I’ve also had to deal with some health and financial challenges.  It felt like one thing after another. And I found myself having to step back and refocus on the essentials. Like connection, rest, and yes for me, salsa dancing!

Looking back now, I can see how small steps have helped me regain my footing. There wasn’t one grand solution, just tiny, meaningful actions. Even a hot shower, a chat with a friend, or a quick dance in my kitchen brought some relief.

Today, I want to explore how small acts of kindness, both to yourself and to others, can carry you through this season.

Why do I feel so stressed at Christmas?

The relentless expectation to feel joyful is everywhere. On television, in shop windows, even in the casual questions that we all ask each other,

“Are you ready for Christmas?”

I often want to reply,

“Well, I’ve just spent 20 minutes untangling my fairy lights that still don’t work, so no, not really!”

The truth is, this season brings up so many emotions. It can bring up joy, nostalgia and connection, but also stress, expectation, pressure and grief.

One of the more well-known people in my Salsa community has recently lost his life partner, and the love of his life, to cancer. I know there’s nothing that anyone can say to him to make him feel better at this point, in his shock and his grief.

But this has been a sharp reminder to me that life doesn’t stop being painful or messy just because it’s Christmas. It’s okay not to feel festive. You don’t have to fake it to please or satisfy other people.

To that end, there’s a story I’m excited to share with you today. It’s about finding your peace in the noise of life, a theme that I think we all need this Christmas.

How do I stop being overwhelmed at Christmas?

But before we go there, here are some practical tips to help you cope with Christmas.

     1. Say ‘no’ without feeling guilt

It’s okay to bow out of a party, or to skip certain traditions. Your energy is precious, and protecting it isn’t selfish. It’s necessary. Ask yourself what would happen if you let go of just one of those Christmas shoulds.

For me, this year, I’m saying no to staying at home for Christmas. Instead, I’m going to Prague, and then to Hamburg. Honestly, it feels like I’ve taken dashing through the snow to a whole new level! Except maybe with fewer reindeer and more cobblestones. I mean, who needs your own tinsel when you’ve got gothic architecture and stollen?

So if there’s a tradition or expectation that’s draining you, ask yourself, what would actually happen if you just let it go?

      2. Celebrate small wins

Recommended by a client, I started using an app called Finch. It’s gamified, so it’s not perfect for everyone, but it did help me focus on the smallest of goals, like drinking water or reading. Celebrating those small wins gave me the momentum to do a little bit more.

That’s something I encourage my clients to do. Acknowledge even the tiniest victories. We so often overlook our progress. Dismissing the small wins because they just don’t feel big enough. But those small steps are what carry us forward.

In therapy, I’ve seen this so many times. For my clients, it’s often moments when they finally take space for themselves, stand up for their needs, or say no to something that doesn’t serve them.

It’s amazing how often someone will pause and say,

“Wait a minute. I did handle that better than I would have before.”

It’s like watching someone finally realise that they’ve been climbing a mountain, where they’ve been too busy staring at the ground!

Recognising how far you’ve come can feel surprisingly good. It’s a little light bulb moment that can shift your entire outlook. So take a moment each day to acknowledge something that you’ve done well, whether it’s setting a boundary, navigating a tough conversation, or simply getting through the day. Celebrate it. These small moments of recognition can be powerful acts of kindness towards yourself.

     3. Focus on kind connection

Instead of striving for perfection, think about how you can simply connect with the people or the animals around you.

For me, this has meant spending time with Henry. Henry is not my cat. I’d like to make that very clear. He just decided one day (because I can’t lock my cat flap) that my house was part of his territory! And now he shows up every morning like he’s clocking in for work.

Henry is the polar opposite of my late tiny cat. He’s huge. And he lounges around all day while I work, occasionally looking at me as if to say,

“You’re welcome!”

Honestly, he’s terrible at assisting me with anything but morale, but something is grounding about having him there. His whole vibe is, ‘I belong here and I’m going to nap, play, and occasionally bring you a rat, unapologetically’.

It’s a lesson in connection, and also in setting boundaries. Because Henry actually hasn’t got any!

But even his uninvited visits remind me that connection doesn’t have to be complicated or perfect. Sometimes it’s just about being there for each other, (or being there to sleep on someone else’s sofa!)

  4. Let yourself feel it

If you’re grieving, let yourself grieve. If you’re sad, let yourself be sad. The pressure to be okay all the time doesn’t make those feelings go away. In fact, it just buries them or makes them worse. So cry, write, scream into a pillow if you need to. Feeling your feelings doesn’t ruin Christmas, it makes it human.

     5. Pause and breathe

This might sound really simple. When you feel overwhelmed, take a slow breath. Sometimes I do this during client sessions, and it amazes me how a small act like this can shift the moment.

We’ve talked about embracing imperfection and finding light in small moments. Now, let me share a story that captures this spirit beautifully. It’s called the Christmas present by Richmal Crompton.

Take a deep breath. Settle in. And let the story carry you into its message of quiet empowerment.

THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT — By RICHMAL CROMPTON

Mary Clay looked out of the window of the old farmhouse. The view was dreary enough—hill and field and woodland, bare, colourless, mist-covered—with no other house in sight. She had never been a woman to crave for company. She liked sewing. She was passionately fond of reading. She was not fond of talking. Probably she could have been very happy at Cromb Farm—alone. Before her marriage she had looked forward to the long evenings with her sewing and reading. She knew that she would be busy enough in the day, for the farmhouse was old and rambling, and she was to have no help in the housework. But she looked forward to quiet, peaceful, lamplit evenings; and only lately, after ten years of married life, had she reluctantly given up the hope of them. For peace was far enough from the old farm kitchen in the evening. It was driven away by John Clay’s loud voice, raised always in orders or complaints, or in the stumbling, incoherent reading aloud of his newspaper.

Mary was a silent woman herself and a lover of silence. But John liked to hear the sound of his voice; he liked to shout at her; to call for her from one room to another; above all, he liked to hear his voice reading the paper out loud to her in the evening. She dreaded that most of all. It had lately seemed to jar on her nerves till she felt she must scream aloud. His voice going on and on, raucous and sing-song, became unspeakably irritating. His “Mary!” summoning her from her household work to wherever he happened to be, his “Get my slippers,” or “Bring me my pipe,” exasperated her almost to the point of rebellion. “Get your own slippers” had trembled on her lips, but had never passed them, for she was a woman who could not bear anger. Noise of any kind appalled her.

She had borne it for ten years, so surely she could go on with it. Yet today, as she gazed hopelessly at the wintry country side, she became acutely conscious that she could not go on with it. Something must happen. Yet what was there that could happen?

It was Christmas next week. She smiled ironically at the thought. Then she noticed the figure of her husband coming up the road. He came in at the gate and round to the side-door.

“Mary!”

She went slowly in answer to the summons. He held a letter in his hand.

“Met the postman,” he said. “From your aunt.”

She opened the letter and read it in silence. Both of them knew quite well what it contained.

“She wants us to go over for Christmas again,” said Mary.

He began to grumble.

“She’s as deaf as a post. She’s ‘most as deaf as her mother was. She ought to know better than to ask folks over when she can’t hear a word any one says.”

Mary said nothing. He always grumbled about the invitation at first, but really he wanted to go. He liked to talk with her uncle. He liked the change of going down to the village for a few days and hearing all its gossip. He could quite well leave the farm to the “hands” for that time.

The Crewe deafness was proverbial. Mary’s great-grandmother had gone stone deaf at the age of thirty-five; her daughter had inherited the affliction and her grand-daughter, the aunt with whom Mary had spent her childhood, had inherited it also at exactly the same age.

“All right,” he said at last, grudgingly, as though in answer to her silence, “we’d better go. Write and say we’ll go.”

It was Christmas Eve. They were in the kitchen of her uncle’s farmhouse. The deaf old woman sat in her chair by the fire knitting. Upon her sunken face there was a curious sardonic smile that was her habitual expression. The two men stood in the doorway. Mary sat at the table looking aimlessly out of the window. Outside, the snow fell in blinding showers. Inside, the fire gleamed on to the copper pots and pans, the crockery on the old oak dresser, the hams hanging from the ceiling.

Suddenly James turned.

“Jane!” he said.

The deaf woman never stirred.

“Jane!”

Still there was no response upon the enigmatic old face by the fireside.

“Jane!”

She turned slightly towards the voice.

“Get them photos from upstairs to show John,” he bawled.

“What about boats?” she said.

“Photos!” roared her husband.

“Coats?” she quavered.

Mary looked from one to the other. The man made a gesture of irritation and went from the room.

He came back with a pile of picture postcards in his hand.

“It’s quicker to do a thing oneself,” he grumbled. “They’re what my brother sent from Switzerland, where he’s working now. It’s a fine land, to judge from the views of it.”

John took them from his hand. “She gets worse?” he said nodding towards the old woman.

She was sitting gazing at the fire, her lips curved into the curious smile.

Her husband shrugged his shoulders. “Aye. She’s nigh as bad as her mother was.”

“And her grandmother.”

“Aye. It takes longer to tell her to do something than to do it myself. And deaf folks get a bit stupid, too. Can’t see what you mean. They’re best let alone.”

The other man nodded and lit his pipe. Then James opened the door.

“The snow’s stopped,” he said. “Shall we go to the end of the village and back?”

The other nodded, and took his cap from behind the door. A gust of cold air filled the room as they went out.

Mary took a paper-backed book from the table and came over to the fireplace.

“Mary!”

She started. It was not the sharp, querulous voice of the deaf old woman, it was more like the voice of the young aunt whom Mary remembered in childhood. The old woman was leaning forward, looking at her intently.

“Mary! A happy Christmas to ‘ee.”

And, as if in spite of herself, Mary answered in her ordinary low tones.

“The same to you, auntie.”

“Thank ‘ee. Thank ‘ee.”

Mary gasped.

“Aunt! Can you hear me speaking like this?”

The old woman laughed, silently, rocking to and fro in her chair as if with pent-up merriment of years.

“Yes, I can hear ‘ee, child. I’ve allus heard ‘ee.”

Mary clasped her hand eagerly.

“Then—you’re cured, Aunt—”

“Ay. I’m cured as far as there was ever anything to be cured.”

“You—?”

“I was never deaf, child, nor never will be, please God. I’ve took you all in fine.”

Mary stood up in bewilderment.

“You? Never deaf?”

The old woman chuckled again.

“No, nor my mother—nor her mother neither.”

Mary shrank back from her.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said, unsteadily. “Have you been—pretending?”

“I’ll make you a Christmas present of it, dearie,” said the old woman. “My mother made me a Christmas present of it when I was your age, and her mother made her one. I haven’t a lass of my own to give it to, so I give it to you. It can come on quite sudden like, if you want it, and then you can hear what you choose and not hear what you choose. Do you see?” She leant nearer and whispered, “You’re shut out of it all—of having to fetch and carry for ’em, answer their daft questions and run their errands like a dog. I’ve watched you, my lass. You don’t get much peace, do you?”

Mary was trembling.

“Oh, I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I—I couldn’t do it.”

“Do what you like,” said the old woman. “Take it as a present, anyways—the Crewe deafness for a Christmas present,” she chuckled. “Use it or not as you like. You’ll find it main amusin’, anyways.”

And into the old face there came again that curious smile as if she carried in her heart some jest fit for the gods on Olympus.

The door opened suddenly with another gust of cold air, and the two men came in again, covered with fine snow.

“I—I’ll not do it,” whispered Mary, trembling.

“We didn’t get far. It’s coming on again,” remarked John, hanging up his cap.

The old woman rose and began to lay the supper, silently and deftly, moving from cupboard to table without looking up. Mary sat by the fire, motionless and speechless, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals.

“Any signs o’ the deafness in her?” whispered James, looking towards Mary. “It come on my wife jus’ when she was that age.”

“Aye. So I’ve heered.”

Then he said loudly, “Mary!”

A faint pink colour came into her cheeks, but she did not show by look or movement that she had heard. James looked significantly at her husband.

The old woman stood still for a minute with a cup in each hand and smiled her slow, subtle smile.

What this Christmas story can teach us

This story resonates so deeply with me because it’s about finding peace and self-empowerment in the small moments of life. It’s a reminder that Christmas doesn’t have to be perfect. It can be meaningful in its imperfections.

Like the feigned deafness in the story. Sometimes we need to shut out the noise to find out what truly matters. And no, I’m not suggesting that you feign deafness to avoid your in-laws! But I do hope this story inspires you to carve out space for yourself this season.

Final Words

And now to close. If you’re feeling lost this Christmas, remember, you’re not broken. You’re human. And humans are messy, resilient, and full of light, even in the hardest times. A favorite song or even a salsa move. Like in dancing, life isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up. Even if you occasionally step on someone’s toes or accidentally smack them in the face, which, you know, did happen in my illustrious return. Turns out nobody remembers a misstep, they just remember the joy of dancing together.

Action Step

Those small moments of light make all the difference. So here’s my invitation to you this week. Take just one of the ideas we’ve explored today and try it out. Maybe it’s saying no to something that’s draining you, celebrating a small win, Or simply pausing to take a breath. You don’t have to do it all. Just one small step to show yourself kindness this season.

If you’d like to reflect on how far you’ve come this year, take a moment to write down three things you’re proud of, big or small. You might be surprised at how much light you’ve already created.

And if this year has left you feeling stretched, thin or emotionally frayed, know that you don’t have to face it alone. Let’s work together to rediscover your light. You can find me at https://www.bristolcounselling.co.uk/

I’d also love to hear how you’re navigating the holidays this year. Feel free to reach out on my website or my social media to share your difficulty, your small wins, or your moments of light.

Thank you so much for joining me today. I’m Shelley Treacher and this is the Stress Anxiety Recovery Podcast. Wishing you a Christmas break that’s real, raw and filled with unexpected light.

I may be taking a little break after this, but rest assured I’ll be back with more stories, reflections and support when the time is right.

Until next time, be kind to yourself. And Merry Christmas!