Melancholy, Mistletoe, and Meaning

Every December, the world tells us to sparkle. To crank up the cheer, deck every hall, and smile through the exhaustion. But sometimes—like Charlie Brown standing beneath a sky too big and a tree too small—the joy just doesn’t come easy.

And maybe that’s okay.

There is a quiet comfort in admitting that the holidays can be both merry and melancholy. That we can miss someone deeply and still feel the warmth of the lights. That we can crave stillness while the world rushes to consume more. A Charlie Brown Christmas reminds us that even in our loneliest moments, there is beauty in slowing down enough to feel it all—the ache, the sweetness, and the simple meaning beneath it.

Since having Luna, I’ve watched A Charlie Brown Christmas approximately 137 times. It’s her absolute favorite cartoon. From the time she was a newborn, she’s found it comforting and soothing. And, as it turns out, so have I.

First airing on CBS in 1965, this holiday classic hasn’t lost an ounce of its magic—and I don’t think it ever will. In just 25 minutes, it follows Charlie Brown as he struggles to understand the true meaning of Christmas. It’s filled with classic Charlie Brown moments and paired with the coziest jazz score imaginable—a soundtrack that tugs at your heartstrings while offering a few gentle chuckles along the way.

Because the truth is, Christmas can do that. It can stir joy and nostalgia while simultaneously pulling at grief and longing.

I remember the first holiday season after my mom died. The lights didn’t twinkle as brightly. Carols didn’t hit the way they used to. And gathering as a family without her felt like the saddest part of all. Like so many moms, she was the heartbeat of our holiday magic year after year.

When she was suddenly gone, that absence was deeply felt. And while dementia had already taken pieces of her from us in the years leading up to that Christmas, the loss of her physical presence was undeniable.

I felt like Charlie Brown when he said, “I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.”

That year was filled with going through the motions and crying over my brodo con vongole on Christmas Eve. I wept to Mariah Carey’s O Holy Night more times than I can count.

As the years have passed, my grief has shifted and softened. Now, I seek the sweet nostalgia of my upbringing—the traditions and memories that bring me closest to my mom and reconnect me to that childlike sense of Christmas wonder.

Watching Christmas Vacation on repeat. Taking Luna to see Santa. Making June’s dill and ranch oyster crackers for gifting. And, of course, a very special annual screening of It's a Wonderful Life—her favorite.

Like Charlie Brown’s little tree, grief asks us to tend gently to what’s still standing: the memories, the traditions, the love that remains—even when it looks sparse.

So while this season is often labeled the most wonderful time of the year, many of us are quietly going through it. And much of that “going through it” can’t be seen.

It might be the loss of a loved one, divorce, job loss, financial stress, worry in uncertain times, mental health struggles, physical illness—or simply the holiday blues.

So, if I may offer a gentle holiday act of kindness: the next time you encounter someone who seems off or frazzled, choose to sit next to your curmudgeonly uncle at dinner, or notice a mother and child selling candy on the street—channel your inner Linus.

Because just like he said about that sparse little tree, “Maybe it just needs a little love.”

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the true meaning of Christmas after all: showing love to all.

Stay cozy,
Lauren Massarella

This article was originally written for Hillgrove Ave Magazine.

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