Is guilt the driving force behind an authentic Irish Christmas?

Guilt may not be a word many associate with Christmas, but in Ireland, it may as well be printed on the wrapping paper.

For a nation of chronic people-pleasers, an Irish Christmas often comes with a unique experience of guilt. Sarah Finnan says it’s time to let go and say no.

Guilt may not be a word many associate with Christmas, but in Ireland, it may as well be printed on the wrapping paper. It’s part and parcel of any good celebration – the invisible guest no one invited that shadows you all season long.

Irish Christmas runs on guilt. It’s an emotional currency whose value spikes this time of year. It comes in varying forms and intensity, but it’s omnipresent (just like Santa!).

There’s guilt about not seeing old friends enough, about who you visited (and who you didn’t). There’s guilt about how much or how little you spent, about overindulging, about whether you’ve put in enough ‘effort’. There’s also the familiar tug of familial guilt, characterised by the feeling that everyone’s happiness rests squarely on your shoulders.

Chris Hanna Illustration for Christmas Guilt, chris-hanna.com

And who could forget Catholic guilt? The only certain thing in life besides death and taxes. This one resurfaces the moment you set foot inside your local church for midnight mass, hurried in by your long-suffering granny who insists on one mandatory outing a year. Having gone to a Catholic primary and secondary school myself, I know that this one is perhaps hardest to shake. It’s the reason I still feel the urge to bless myself whenever I pass a graveyard, even though I haven’t been a practising Christian in over 10 years and technically don’t know why I’m doing it.

You see guilt play out in smaller ways, too; the frantic dash to three different houses on Christmas Day, apologising at each one for being late. The panicked WhatsApps to an old neighbour because you’ve been “meaning to meet up all year”. The moment you heap a third helping onto your plate, only for your mother to say, “Leave some for the sandwiches!” Guilt comes in more flavours than a tin of Roses, each one tied together by the idea that it’s your job to keep everyone else happy.

This guilt isn’t accidental either; we’ve been trained for it since birth. We’re a nation of chronic people pleasers, hardwired to prioritise everyone else before ourselves.

When the festive season rolls around, we don’t just want things to go well; we feel personally responsible for orchestrating the joy. If someone is disappointed, we assume it’s our fault. If someone is stressed, we apologise. And if someone innocently remarks, “I thought you’d be earlier”, we carry the sting of that ‘til New Year’s.

Part of it is inherited, too, passed down from generation to generation like some musty heirloom none of us really know what to do with. We’ve watched our parents kill themselves with the prepping, and fussing, and cooking, and doing, and now it’s our turn. By the time Stephen’s Day arrives, half the country is emotionally hungover — not from the wine, but from the pressure of managing everyone else’s needs.

This is why the festive season can be so especially tricky; it’s overloaded with expectation. So much so that it can feel like a performance at times. We all indulge in it in some way.

Sarah Finnan: "This is why the festive season can be so especially tricky; it’s overloaded with expectation. So much so that it can feel like a performance at times. We all indulge in it in some way."

We pretend to be enthused about traditions we’ve outgrown, we feign excitement about ill-chosen presents, we decline all offers of help in the kitchen, assuring everyone we’re “grand” despite the smoke and smell of burning. There’s a sense that Christmas must look and feel a certain way, and if it doesn’t, we’ve somehow failed. It’s no wonder half of us are exhausted before December even begins. We’re so busy trying to maintain the illusion of festive harmony that we barely notice the tension in our jaw. It’s draining, to say the least.

In her book titled How To Survive Christmas, the late Jilly Cooper writes that one alternative is to “cop out of Christmas altogether”.

“Spend it in a hotel abroad,” she advises, though you will, of course, be made to feel “desperately guilty” for thinking only of yourself. “Many of us dread it,” she says, “feeling only passionate relief when it’s all over.” But what if it didn’t have to be that way?

Shedding the guilt is easier said than done, but Christmas won’t collapse if the ham is dry or if Auntie Teresa’s feelings are bruised because you didn’t stay for custard. The world won’t end if you say no, leave early, or prioritise a bit of calm over another chaotic reunion. Deep down, most of us want the same thing: a simple day, a full table, and the people we love all in the same room, peacefully coexisting (crucial).

It’s all a bit ridiculous, really. Funny, even, in its own maddening way. Guilt has a habit of rearing its ugly head at the worst possible moment, waving its little red flag and insisting we care about things no sane person should lose sleep over.

We treat it like a vital ingredient, sprinkling it over the day as if the turkey won’t cook without it. But Christmas doesn’t need guilt to function; we’re the ones who keep adding it like seasoning.

Every year, we smother simplicity under obligations and expectations that no one can realistically meet. Normally rational people start acting like
unpaid staff, taking on a disproportionate amount of work, apologising constantly, and convincing themselves it’s just what you do at Christmas. It’s a pattern of self-sacrifice that we begrudgingly partake in, and for what? The privilege of peeling spuds at dawn? Maybe this year we could just… not. Less guilt, more gravy; that’s the brief.