Christmas in the 90s

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Christmas in the 90s didn’t feel curated.

It wasn’t beige. It wasn’t minimalist. It wasn’t trying to heal anyone’s inner child.

It was loud colors and tangled lights. Tinsel everywhere. Ornaments that absolutely did not match and somehow survived multiple house moves without breaking. The tree lights got hot if you touched them for too long, and no one cared.

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Christmas in the 90s smelled like real pine, instant coffee, cigarette smoke clinging to winter coats, and whatever was cooking way too early in the morning. It sounded like MuchMusic specials, a TV blaring in the background, and adults laughing too loud because they’d already started drinking.

There were people everywhere.

Cousins you only saw once a year. Aunts who hugged too tight. Uncles who fell asleep on the couch before dinner. Someone was always late. Someone was always mad about it. Someone was always trying to calm everyone down while pretending they weren’t stressed out of their mind.

And somehow—despite the chaos—it felt safe.

Christmas morning started early. Not because of mindfulness or tradition, but because kids simply could not sleep. We’d sit at the top of the stairs, waiting for permission, staring at the glow of the tree like it might disappear if we blinked too hard. Gifts were wrapped in paper that ripped the second you touched it. No aesthetic bows. No color themes. Just vibes.

The gifts themselves were pure 90s magic. VHS tapes. CDs. Tamagotchis. Barbie outfits with tiny plastic hangers. Nintendo games that required blowing into the cartridge like it was a sacred ritual. Everything felt monumental, even the small stuff.

Photos were taken with disposable cameras or camcorders that weighed a ton. Someone always forgot to take the lens cap off. Someone else complained about wasting film. None of it ended up online. The memories lived where they happened.

Dinner was loud. Plates were mismatched. Kids ate first. Adults argued about politics at the table like it was a competitive sport. Dessert came out whether people were ready or not. You didn’t ask for gluten-free options. You ate what was there or you didn’t—and somehow survived.

And when the day finally slowed down, there was this strange, cozy exhaustion. Wrapping paper stuffed into garbage bags. Half-assembled toys scattered across the floor. Everyone settling into their spots like the house itself was exhaling.

Christmas in the 90s wasn’t perfect.

But it was full.

Now, decades later, it feels like a different lifetime. Families are smaller. Traditions are fractured. Some of us don’t celebrate with our families anymore at all. The noise faded. The chaos thinned out. The magic became something we chase instead of something that just happened to us.

I don’t want to go back—not really.

But I miss the feeling of belonging to something messy and loud and unavoidable. I miss the way Christmas used to take up space. I miss when it didn’t ask anything of me except to show up.

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Christmas in the 90s lives in memory now.

In the glow of old lights. In the sound of wrapping paper tearing. In the kind of warmth you don’t realize you’re standing in until years later, when it’s gone.

This isn’t sadness.

It’s gratitude.

For the chaos. For the noise. For the years when Christmas felt endless.

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Stay nostalgic. Stay soft with yourself.

xoxo, MJ