My Complicated Relationship with the Christmas Tree: A Study in Self-Inflicted Chaos

Every December I stage a small, interior-led meltdown in the name of holiday spirit. Consider this my annual report - plus a gift guide.

I don’t have a green thumb. I love plants in theory, but I’ve never been willing to sacrifice visual square footage to a small indoor jungle. I appreciate objects more than foliage, and the whole plants clean the air argument only works if you own enough of them to qualify as a greenhouse.

Maybe that’s why, growing up, our Christmas tree was never a real one. My mom had no interest in shedding needles or watering schedules. The same artificial tree came out every December — reliable, unbothered — and that became our tradition. No drama. No sap. No mourning period in January.

This year, I thought I might do things differently.

Buying a real tree wasn’t about nostalgia or muscle memory. It was about starting something new my kids could root into. I wanted the smell of pine drifting through the apartment, that unmistakable signal that the holidays had arrived. A scent they could one day return to, without thinking, and feel December in their bodies.

But if we’re telling the truth, the real reason I finally tried to buy a living tree is because my Christmas trees have always looked like…shit. You’d think an interior stylist would have this part figured out, but I never bothered to understand the underlying blueprint — the layering, the spacing, the way a tree has its own interior architecture. And it showed. Every. Single. Year.

This was supposed to be the year I fixed that.

I had a vision: slim, restrained, almost architectural. The kind of tree that respects small apartments and doesn’t demand to be the loudest thing in the room. I even sent my husband out with a reference photo from my friend Alison of 600sqftandababy, whose small-space tree curation I admire every December. She has a gift for proportion and trees that feel intentional rather than imposed.

What came back was… not that.

It was short. Chubby. Too wide for the corner it was meant to occupy. Slightly lopsided. The botanical equivalent of a shrug.

Five minutes in the apartment was generous. I made him take it straight back.

That’s when I learned that December 4th is already too late to be choosy. By then, the slender, elegant, small-space-friendly trees have been claimed by people who prepare for the holidays in advance. What remains are the structural oddities — trees with opinions, trees that refuse to be styled.

This realization came after I had already donated my IKEA tree. The one that most closely resembled the alpine fir I’d been chasing in its imaginary living form. A decision I regretted almost immediately. At one point, I asked my husband if he thought they might still have it. And if there was any chance we could… get it back.

He just looked at me. Which felt fair.

Alpine firs, it turns out, aren’t exactly an East Coast staple or at least not in any form that matches the Scandinavian fantasy in my head. Or maybe they are, and I simply didn’t do enough research to find the one place in New York that might carry them. Either way, after a brief but spirited crisis, I ended up right back where I started.

I rebought an IKEA tree. *Drum rolls*

So no, this is not the year I became a real-tree person. The alpine fir of my Scandinavian dreams never materialized, December beat me to it, and after a brief but spirited crisis, I rebought the IKEA tree I had prematurely donated.

It turns out I don’t hate fake trees. I hate pretending to be someone who plans ahead.

The tradition will come. Just not this year. An alpine-fir candle will handle the atmosphere until further notice.

So instead of needles and provenance, I put my energy where it actually belongs: objects. The small, sensory things that carry the season without demanding maintenance or advance planning.

Below is a small holiday gift guide — for people like me, who love Christmas in theory, appreciate design in practice, and prefer their magic low-effort and well-considered.

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The Gift Guide

Plastic Baroque Bookends by James Michael Shaw (and more)

Sculptural, slightly camp, and fully committed to their own theatricality. These bookends are what happens when baroque drama meets contemporary mischief — a joyful disruption to any shelf. Also worth lingering on the rest of James Michael Shaw’s work: the same sense of humor, scaled across objects.

Georg Jensen Children’s Cutlery Set

At some point, every toddler develops a dining-room personality, and the soft-touch silicone spoons of early parenthood start to feel… provisional. Enter this Georg Jensen set: playful without being precious, sculptural without tipping into novelty. The small illustrated faces feel like an inside wink at the table.

The beauty is in its longevity. Once they outgrow the children’s cutlery era, the pieces transition easily into dessert spoons and cake forks. One of those gifts that becomes accidentally generational. It can be tucked away into a drawer, resurfacing years later, still charming, still itself.

TOAST Bristol Weaving Mill Block Stripe Blanket

A blanket that does exactly what a blanket should: cocoon you without ceremony. The kind of throw you pull over your knees mid-morning, or toss over a sofa so it looks purposefully lived-in without trying.

Teklan x IKEA

A lamp that plays music, designed by Swedish designer Teklan for IKEA. I repeat: a lamp that plays music. Ideal for people who hate visual clutter but refuse to live in silence.

Pina Bausch by Guy Delisle

For people who move through the world by feeling first. Choreographic thinking, captured on paper.

Alex Mill Balaclava

I’ve always had a soft spot for balaclavas, long before they reached their current, borderline-sociological saturation point. My first was Louis Vuitton, bought with my very first paycheck at 18 — a decision that felt completely responsible at the time, especially after a shift spent smelling like BBQ smoke.

That one still holds up, fifteen years later. But there’s always room for another.

Nothing performative here. Just good shape, good color, and the rare feeling that someone actually thought about how this would actually be worn.

Also worth a look : Verloop Color Hood at MoMA

Director’s Notebook Kids is an invitation to think cinematically — for the future auteur (or the friend who thinks their life is a movie). Paired with There Are No Silly Questions, a book built on the simple, generous belief that curiosity is worth following, the two make a powerful combination that protects curiosity and creative confidence.

Zara Colored Vase

For when you want to pretend you’re the type of person who always has flowers, even when you don’t.

Loewe Small Mimosa Candle

Smells like good taste. End of story.

Things I’m Loving This Week

Because inspiration is rarely linear.

• I’m obsessed with former Refinery 29 Co-Founder and writer Christene Barberich’s A Tiny Apartment newsletter. In her A Tiny Tour series, she gravitates toward homes that feel mystical and deeply revered, spaces we haven’t seen a million times before. The series feels like a rare gift: interiors that surprise, feel alive, and refuse to repeat the same familiar tropes. The Bamboo House centers on August West’s revival of her grandfather Paul McGregor’s mid-century beach house in Fire Island Pines. Working alongside friends from art school, she transformed it into a shared home shaped by collective creativity — a living, breathing community built through artistic collaboration. I’d never come across the Bamboo House before, and I was genuinely happy to read about it.

• The Power of the Dog stars Benedict Cumberbatch, Kirsten Dunst, Jesse Plemons, and Kodi Smit-McPhee. I won’t take credit for this one — my husband has a deep appreciation for film, and he chose it for movie night. It didn’t disappoint. A slow, atmospheric watch that rewards patience and close attention.

• There’s a particular kind of visual happiness, the kind that feels inviting rather than arranged. That’s the energy writer Lisa Przystup captures here: a space that feels convivial and spontaneous, like a scene you want to step into.

If there’s anything this season reminded me of, it’s that perfection has very little to do with what actually makes it feel like the holidays.

For me, it was hosting a Christmas tree–tinsel hat–making party for my 8-year-old which was the right amount of joy.

What’s making it feel like the holidays for you, even if everything else feels a little messy or imperfect?

If anything here opened a small door for you, tell me! I love hearing what others are noticing. And if you know someone who would appreciate this kind of slow, design-forward attention, pass it along. These conversations travel best person to person.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

xx,

Merie