“How was your Christmas?” It’s the question doing the rounds this week as we all filter back to work, clutching our coffees a little tighter than usual. And here’s what I’ve noticed about myself: I have my answer ready.
My polite, socially acceptable answer that keeps the conversation light and doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. “It was lovely, thanks. Quiet. Nice to have some time off from work.”
But here’s the truth I’ve been sitting with as I ease back into work today: it was hard. Really, really hard.
The Preparation That Wasn’t Enough
I’d done everything I thought I needed to do. I’d planned our low-demand Christmas for my AuDHD PDA child (Autism, ADHD with a Pathological Demand Avoidance profile) while trying to keep the magic alive for my neurotypical son who was full of festive excitement. I’d thought through the sensory considerations, the schedule changes, the potential flashpoints. I’d prepared.
Turns out you can’t prepare for everything. Or perhaps more accurately: you can’t prepare a nervous system that’s already running on empty.
The week before Christmas, I got ill. Because that’s what happens when you finally stop moving, your body forces the rest you’ve been denying it for months. The mental load doesn’t get a holiday, but apparently my immune system had other ideas.
The Moments No One Posts About
Christmas Eve: quiet tears on the drive home from the light display we’d left early because it became too much. The grief catching me off guard again, that grief for the life I thought we’d have versus the reality of what is. It still gets me, even when I think I’ve made peace with it.
Christmas Day: we didn’t eat together. I had my Christmas dinner at the table. My PDA child had chicken goujons in her room because that’s what she could manage. And you know what? That’s ok. It looked different, but we made it work.
Boxing Day morning: me at the laptop researching nutrition protocols and supplement plans. One to rebuild my own broken nervous system. Another to protect my daughter’s. Not exactly the lazy, indulgent morning the Christmas films promised.
The reality of living in constant high alert. Safeguarding one child from the other. Trying to hold space for both their very different needs. Still trying to keep some version of magic alive while your own nervous system screams for rest.
The Weight of ‘How Was Your Christmas?’
When colleagues ask me that question, I feel the pull to give them the answer they want. The one that doesn’t burden them with reality. The one that keeps things light.
But here’s what I’m sitting with today, back at my laptop and honestly relieved to have some structure and routine again: maybe we need to make more space for honest answers.
Not the trauma-dumping, oversharing kind. But the human, “it was complicated” kind.
Because when I logged in this morning and saw messages from my colleagues, these wonderful humans who genuinely know me—I realised I don’t have to perform for them. They’ve seen me. They know. And there’s something deeply comforting about working alongside people who understand that “How was your break?” might not have a simple answer.
What I’m Taking into 2026
It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t the picture-perfect social media Christmas. But we made it through.
2026 is going to be about mending my nervous system and protecting hers. It’s going to be about getting better at the honest answer instead of the polite lie. It’s going to be about recognising that sometimes the best gift you can give yourself is lowering the bar and celebrating that everyone survived.
I’m done apologising for the chicken goujons Christmas dinner. For feeling guilty about the light display we left early. For pretending that being the parent of a neurodivergent child during the Christmas break is anything other than a full-contact sport that requires recovery time.
The Workplaces We Need
So when someone asks me how my Christmas was, I’m trying something new: “It was full. How was yours?”
Because full can hold hard and beautiful. It can hold grief and gratitude. It can hold the reality that loving your children fiercely doesn’t mean every moment is magical and that’s ok too. But here’s what really struck me as I settled back into work this week: the difference between workplaces where you can give that honest answer, and workplaces where you can’t.
The colleagues who said “genuinely, how are you?” and meant it. The culture that doesn’t require me to perform “I had a great break!” when the reality is I’m still recovering from it. The understanding that some of us are parenting neurodivergent children, caring for aging parents, managing chronic illness, or simply holding more than is visible on the surface.
This Matters Commercially, Not Just Culturally
When people can show up authentically, when they don’t have to spend energy managing the gap between their reality and what they think they’re supposed to project—they bring their whole selves to their work. They’re more engaged, more creative, more present. They stay longer. They contribute more meaningfully.
As I sit here and type this, this is what belonging means to me. Belonging isn’t a buzzword. It’s the moment I don’t have to edit my life to make it easier for others to hear. It’s being honest about how my Christmas really was without smoothing the edges, without performing with gratitude and without pretending it was lighter than it felt. It’s understanding that the parent who seems distracted in January might be running on fumes after safeguarding two very different children through a two-week break. It’s recognising that “How was your break?” might need a more expansive answer than “Great, thanks!”
Belonging is what happens when honesty is met with understanding, when all lived experiences and realities are genuinely welcomed, not just tolerated.
The businesses that get this, that create space for the real, messy, complicated humans behind the job titles—those are the ones building cultures where people actually want to stay. Where innovation happens because people feel safe enough to be honest. Where productivity doesn’t come at the cost of people pretending their lives outside work don’t exist.
Here’s to the Real Conversations
If you made it through your Christmas in whatever way worked for your family, whether that looked conventional or completely different—you did enough. You were enough.
Here’s to 2026. To nervous systems that get the support they need. To honest conversations. To the colleagues and workplaces that make coming back feel like coming back to a community that genuinely sees you.
And to all of us learning that “fine” is a complete sentence, but “it was complicated and I’m still processing” is a truer one and that the spaces we work in should be able to hold both.
Because true inclusion doesn’t stop at neurodiversity in the workplace. It extends to those raising and caring for neurodivergent children. To the caregivers, to everyone navigating realities that don’t fit the neat, polished narrative. That’s the workplace culture worth building. That’s the belonging that actually means something.
What was your Christmas really like? And more importantly—do you work somewhere you could give the real answer?
Amie Meslohi leads on crafting compelling brand narratives and purposeful content that reflect the organisation’s commitment to inclusive leadership and culture. She also writes and speaks about workplace inclusion from lived experience - including as a working parent to a neurodiverse child, highlighting why supporting neurodivergent families matters not only for individual wellbeing but for future-proofing businesses.