Setting: December 2024 — The year I let Hallmark hold me together.
Last Christmas season, I watched 47 made-for-TV Christmas movies, including every single Hallmark premiere and a few from other channels, just for good measure.
Each summer, I start scouring the internet for the upcoming season’s lineup. Several channels release schedules, and I make checklists by network. I log and rate each movie as I finish. It’s a whole process, one I take embarrassingly seriously.
But 47. That was last year.
It was a hard year.
Maybe I just needed the little comforts. A predictable plot. A snow-covered town. A big city girl who learns to slow down and bake cookies. Every night, after the rest of the house was asleep, I’d crawl into bed, press play, and let the soft glow of Christmas wash over me. On weekends, I could sometimes watch as many as five in a row.
It wasn’t really about the movies. It was about needing something gentle, something where everything turns out okay in the end.
Because my own life didn’t feel like that. I felt lost. Lonely. Like I was just surviving.
But under a blanket, with the lights low and the snow softly falling on the screen, I could pretend — just for a while — that love was on its way, that peace was possible, that joy might still show up for me, too.
And maybe it still will. Maybe that’s why I kept watching: to remind myself that happy endings start with believing in one.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
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