It seems to me, personally, that the things that are great during

“It seems to me, personally, that the things that are great during Christmastime are magnified. Like everything is that much better. Everything is magical and spectacular. The things that are wrong or sad are just so much more wrong or sad.” — so spoke Alison Sudol, and in her words lies a truth that is both luminous and sobering. For she captures the dual nature of the season, when hearts are heightened, and every joy glows brighter, yet every sorrow cuts deeper.

The season of Christmastime, with its lights, its music, its gatherings, is more than mere celebration. It is a magnifier of the human spirit. The magical feeling of kindness and hope seems to touch every corner, and even the ordinary feels sacred. A simple dinner becomes a feast, a kind word becomes a blessing, and love itself seems to shine with a radiance impossible in other seasons. But, as Sudol reminds us, the very same magnifying glass that amplifies joy also amplifies pain. To be lonely at Christmastime is to feel more isolated than ever; to grieve is to feel grief sharpened by the contrast of surrounding cheer.

This dual truth was well understood by the ancients, who often spoke of festivals as times when the heart was both lifted and tested. In the Roman festival of Saturnalia, joy overflowed, gifts were exchanged, and the world seemed turned upside down in merriment. But those who were left out—those enslaved, or grieving, or impoverished—felt the sting of exclusion all the more. The lesson is eternal: when the world rejoices, those in sorrow often feel the weight of their pain multiplied.

The origin of Sudol’s reflection lies in the very nature of heightened expectation. The season whispers that all should be merry, all should be whole. But life is not so merciful. There are always wounds, absences, and burdens that cannot be covered by tinsel and lights. This is why she calls the sad things “so much more wrong”—because they exist in stark contrast to the collective atmosphere of joy. Yet by naming this paradox, Sudol offers us wisdom: to remember that while joy is amplified, compassion must also be.

This paradox also points us toward the deeper meaning of the season. Christmastime, at its heart, is not about perfection, but about the meeting of light and darkness. The child born in a stable was not born into plenty but into poverty, not into peace but into a world of oppression. The magical wonder of the story exists side by side with the harsh reality of hardship. Sudol’s observation reminds us that we cannot embrace the beauty of the season without also acknowledging the pain it magnifies.

The lesson for us is clear: in times of great celebration, we must be mindful of those for whom celebration is heavy. Do not assume that the brightness of lights removes the darkness of sorrow. Instead, let the season’s spectacular warmth inspire us to extend kindness, to invite the lonely into our homes, to give not only gifts wrapped in paper but gifts of presence, attention, and love.

Practical action follows: as you rejoice, seek balance. Celebrate with gratitude the things that are great, but open your eyes to the sad things magnified in others. Make a call to someone who grieves, invite a neighbor to share in your meal, offer compassion where it is most needed. In this way, the magnifying glass of the season will not only reveal what is broken but also reflect the healing power of love.

Thus Alison Sudol’s words endure as both celebration and caution. Christmastime is indeed magical, when all that is good feels brighter, more radiant, more alive. Yet it also reveals the sharp edges of sorrow. To live wisely in such a season is to embrace both truths and to respond with joy seasoned by compassion. For only then does the spectacular magic of the season reach its fullest meaning.