Dear joys, I hope you enjoy my reflections on how to stress less this Christmas and play the game of life. As I write this post, it is Christmas Eve tomorrow here in Boquete, Panama and we are enjoying what will be our most joyful, stress-free Christmas. As I share below, it all began with a dream, an intention about how we wanted our lives to be.
There is something quietly radical about this sentence, “No matter how wounded you are, you should still play the game.”
— Morton L. Janklow
Not triumphant.
Not naïve.
Not insisting you be healed, confident, or unafraid before you begin again.
Just this: play anyway.
Because wounds, it turns out, are not disqualifiers. They are credentials.
We live in a culture that subtly insists we should wait until we are “ready”—until the grief has settled, the fear has loosened its grip, the confidence has returned, the story makes sense. But life does not pause while we recover. Love does not queue politely. Creativity does not knock again later when we feel braver. The game keeps moving.
And so the question becomes not “Am I whole enough?”
But “Am I willing?”
Wounded people keep the world turning. Every book that mattered was written by someone who doubted themselves. Every painting that stops you mid-step came from a hand that trembled. Every love worth remembering was offered by someone who knew, intimately, how badly it could hurt.
DIRECT FROM MOLLIE l AMAZON l IBOOKS l BARNES & NOBLE l OTHER
The wound is not the opposite of courage.
It is where courage learns to breathe.
When you play the game while wounded, you play differently. You listen more closely. You choose with greater care. You stop wasting energy on roles that no longer fit. You risk honesty instead of perfection. You begin to understand that winning is not the point—presence is.
To keep playing does not mean pretending you are fine. It means allowing yourself to be seen as you are. It means letting the crack show. It means showing up with your paint-stained hands, your unfinished manuscript, your tender heart, your quiet hope—and saying, this is what I have today.
There is a particular beauty that only arrives when you stop waiting to be unscarred. A depth. A gravity. A truth that polished confidence can never fake.
Because when you play wounded, you play for what matters.
You stop chasing applause and start chasing alignment.
You stop performing and start creating.
You stop asking for permission and start listening inward.
And something extraordinary happens then:
the game becomes less about proving yourself—and more about remembering yourself.
So if you are bruised by love, write anyway.
If you are exhausted by loss, create anyway.
If you are unsure, speak anyway.
If you are afraid, show up anyway.
Not because it won’t hurt.
But because not playing hurts more.
The world does not need your perfection.
It needs your participation.
Still breathing.
Still trying.
Still choosing to step onto the field with a heart that knows the cost—and plays on anyway.
There is something quietly sacred happening here.
A small council has gathered—soft-bodied guardians with button eyes and patient expressions—leaning in as if they understand that this moment matters. The giraffe bows its long neck in blessing. The sloth, unhurried and wise, keeps watch from the side. The bright little creature on the left brings colour and courage. And between them all, a gentle unicorn—symbol of imagination intact.
At the centre of their attention: a hummingbird mid-hover, offering itself to a flower not yet fully formed.
This is how creation really happens.
Not in solitude alone, but in the presence of tenderness. In the company of play. In the safety of witnesses who do not judge the line or question the colour, who do not ask whether the artist is healed enough, ready enough, good enough.
They simply gather and say, go on.
The drawing is unfinished—and that is the point. The flower is still becoming. The bird is suspended between effort and grace. Nothing here is resolved, yet everything is alive.
This image understands something many adults forget:
that play is not the opposite of seriousness.
It is the doorway back to truth.
When you are wounded, you do not need to be harder.
You need to be held—sometimes by memory, sometimes by imagination, sometimes by a circle of soft companions who remind you that it is safe to try again.
So you pick up the pencil.
You let your hand move.
You let the hummingbird come.
And somewhere inside, the part of you that never stopped believing leans forward and watches—quietly, faithfully—as you play the game once more.
For many people, Christmas is no longer the season of peace it promises to be.
It’s a time of pressure.
Of expectations.
Of old family dynamics, financial strain, emotional memories, and an endless to-do list that grows louder the closer December 25th gets.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, tired, or quietly dreading the festivities, you’re not alone—and you’re not doing Christmas wrong.
This year, it’s possible to stress less at Christmas without cancelling the season altogether. It begins with choosing presence over performance.
Christmas stress doesn’t come from one place. It’s usually a layering of many things at once:
Add all of that together, and it’s no wonder the nervous system feels overloaded.
The truth is: Christmas magnifies whatever is already there.
That’s why learning to manage stress at Christmas isn’t about doing more—it’s about doing less, more intentionally.
One of the most powerful ways to reduce Christmas stress is to ask a simple question:
What do I actually want this season to feel like?
Not what it should look like.
Not what others expect.
But how you want to feel.
Calm?
Connected?
Rested?
Hopeful?
Let that feeling become your compass.
When something doesn’t serve that feeling, you’re allowed to say no—even if you’ve always said yes before.
You don’t need:
You need enough.
Enough warmth.
Enough connection.
Enough rest.
Lowering expectations isn’t giving up—it’s creating space for joy to arrive naturally.
Trying to keep every tradition alive is one of the fastest paths to burnout.
Choose:
Let the rest go this year. Traditions can evolve. So can you.
Stress isn’t just about being busy—it’s about being overstimulated.
Energy is a finite resource. Treat it kindly.
Christmas can be especially hard if you’re missing someone, or grieving a past version of life.
You don’t need to “be cheerful” to belong.
Light a candle.
Write a letter.
Allow quiet moments.
Acknowledging grief often softens it. Suppressing it only adds to stress.
The fastest way to stress less is through the body.
Try:
Calm is contagious—especially within yourself.
Some of the most meaningful Christmas moments happen in between the plans.
A quiet morning.
A shared laugh.
A simple meal.
A moment of stillness when everything else fades.
You don’t need to manufacture magic.
You only need to notice it.
This Christmas, may you:
Because the real gift of Christmas isn’t what you give others.
It’s the permission you give yourself
to slow down,
to soften,
and to begin the new year feeling whole rather than depleted.
Posted in: Blog
ABOUT CASSANDRA
I am an artist, storyteller, intuitive guide, mentor and Reiki master. All my creations are infused with positive energy , inspiration, and light. I believe in magic and the power of beauty, joy, love, purpose, and creativity to transform your life. My greatest joy is helping your realize your dreams. That makes my soul sing!
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