Consumerism is the reason Christmas has morphed into a hollow

Host: The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes — thick, soft, almost sorrowful — blanketing the quiet suburbs in a kind of manufactured peace. Beyond the frosted windows of the shopping mall, the world pulsed with artificial warmth: Christmas carols piped through tinny speakers, the scent of cinnamon-sugar candles fighting the tang of plastic packaging, and the endless chorus of credit card swipes and children’s demands echoing off glass and tile.

Inside a small café tucked between a toy store and a jewelry kiosk, two figures sat opposite one another. Jack stirred his black coffee, the bitterness rising in curls of steam. Across from him, Jeeny cradled a mug of hot chocolate, her fingers wrapped around it like someone holding onto a fading warmth. The faint sound of a choir version of “Silent Night” filtered through the speakers — pure, angelic, and completely at odds with the hum of commerce outside.

Between them, a headline on Jeeny’s tablet glowed:

“Consumerism is the reason Christmas has morphed into a hollow shopping ritual that leaves too many families with debt hangovers and an empty feeling inside.” — Rachel Campos-Duffy.

Jeeny: “Every year it gets louder, doesn’t it? Louder, brighter, emptier. You can’t even hear yourself think without jingle bells demanding you spend more.”

Jack: “It’s called the economy, Jeeny. Christmas keeps a lot of people employed.”

Jeeny: “At what cost? Happiness shouldn’t come with a receipt.”

Jack: “Tell that to the single mother working double shifts to buy her kids gifts. You think she’s celebrating capitalism? She’s surviving it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy. We’ve turned survival into spectacle. Families work themselves numb so they can pile gifts under a tree, mistaking debt for devotion.”

Jack: “Maybe love just looks different in this century.”

Jeeny: “No. It looks the same — it’s just buried under wrapping paper.”

Host: The lights outside flickered through the window — red, green, gold — reflecting across their faces. In the distance, a Santa in a polyester suit waved at passing cars, his eyes dull with fatigue.

Jack: “You’re acting like it’s new. People have always mixed ritual with indulgence. Rome had its feasts, Egypt had its idols. This is just our version — cleaner, commercial, efficient.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Those feasts were communal. This—” she gestured toward the crowds outside, the lines, the glittering advertisements “—this is isolation disguised as joy. Everyone’s together, but no one’s connected.”

Jack: “You think buying gifts for people you love is isolation?”

Jeeny: “I think when buying replaces being, it becomes isolation.”

Jack: “You sound nostalgic for some golden age that never existed. People have always wanted things.”

Jeeny: “Wanting isn’t the problem. Worshipping is.”

Host: The barista called out an order — “Peppermint mocha for Olivia!” — her cheerful tone practiced but hollow. Outside, the parking lot was a theater of frustration: brake lights flaring, horns blaring, carts clattering against slush.

Jeeny: “Christmas used to mean gathering — singing, storytelling, reflection. Now it means shipping deadlines, online orders, points programs.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing the past. Half those families you’re talking about couldn’t afford any of that sentimentality. We’ve just democratized it.”

Jeeny: “Democratized or diluted?”

Jack: “You can’t separate the two. Commerce gives access. People who used to have nothing can now participate in the same rituals as the wealthy.”

Jeeny: “But the rituals are empty. You can’t mass-produce meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning’s subjective. Maybe for them, it’s joy. Maybe it’s not hollow at all.”

Jeeny: “Joy that vanishes the moment the bill arrives.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, letting in a rush of cold air and laughter — a father holding two shopping bags and a tired child on his shoulders. For a moment, even Jack’s eyes softened.

Jack: “You see him? That guy doesn’t look hollow. He looks human. Tired, maybe broke, but still trying.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s why it hurts. Because we’ve made people believe that love must cost them something tangible. That Christmas is only real when it’s purchased.”

Jack: “You make it sound malicious — like there’s a conspiracy behind the carols.”

Jeeny: “There doesn’t need to be. The machine runs on desire. All it has to do is whisper that you’re not enough — until you buy something that says you are.”

Jack: “That’s cynical.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s cultural conditioning. The more we consume, the less we remember what we already have.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, the flakes swirling in the streetlights like ash from a quiet fire. The mall across the way glittered like a beacon of distraction. Inside, children screamed with sugar highs while parents scrolled through discount apps.

Jack: “So what, we cancel gifts? End tradition?”

Jeeny: “No. We resurrect it.”

Jack: “By doing what, exactly?”

Jeeny: “By returning to presence over presents. By giving time instead of trinkets. By remembering that a holiday named after love and birth shouldn’t feel like exhaustion and debt.”

Jack: “You think anyone would give up that dopamine hit of unwrapping something shiny?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe they’d trade it for something deeper — like the sound of being understood.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough to fill the void?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The music in the café shifted — the opening notes of an old Nat King Cole song floated softly through the air. The noise from the mall seemed distant now, dulled by the snow piling against the glass.

Jack: “You know, I used to love Christmas. The lights, the chaos, the surprises. Now it just feels… tired.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s your heart asking for something real.”

Jack: “And what’s real anymore?”

Jeeny: “A meal shared. A conversation without checking your phone. The way a room feels when people actually look at each other.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It was meant to be.”

Host: The candle at their table flickered low, its flame barely holding against the draft. The world outside shimmered — alive with color, yet strangely colorless.

Jack: “You know, you’re right about one thing. Every time I buy a gift now, I feel that strange emptiness — that echo. Like I’m trying to fill something that can’t be filled.”

Jeeny: “That’s because gifts can’t replace gratitude. They can only imitate it.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We give differently. Not to impress, but to connect. To remind each other that the best part of any season isn’t what’s under the tree — it’s who’s sitting beside it.”

Jack: [softly] “You sound like a Christmas card.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But for once, I mean it.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, revealing the mall through the window — a glowing temple of consumption, its doors revolving endlessly as shoppers hurried in and out, chasing joy that always seemed one purchase away. Inside the café, however, a small stillness had taken root — two people, two cups, one shared silence that finally felt human.

And through that quiet, Rachel Campos-Duffy’s words lingered — no longer as accusation, but as elegy:

that consumerism has stolen not just the meaning of Christmas,
but its miracle;
that we have mistaken buying for belonging,
and in doing so,
we’ve wrapped emptiness in glitter
and called it celebration;

and yet — beneath the glitter,
beneath the fatigue,
beneath the endless marketing jingles —
the truth still flickers,
like a candle in a crowded mall:

that what we’ve been trying to purchase all along
was never for sale —
it was presence,
connection,
and the fragile, holy act
of simply being together.

Host: Outside, the snow deepened.
Inside, the song ended,
and for the first time that night,
both Jack and Jeeny smiled —
not at the glow of the store windows,
but at each other.