Is The “Christmas Mental Load” All In Our Heads?

I get the frustration. I really do. Recent research shows women carry roughly 70 percent of the household “mental load” year-round, and the holidays crank that up. A 2024 YouGov poll found 52 percent of women (62 percent of mothers) call Christmas “stressful” compared to just 39 percent of men. Globally, women do more care work than men, and then December shows up like a drunk relative demanding a full holiday dinner with all the trimmings.

We bake, we shop, we wrap, we remember that Cousin Laura is now vegan and Aunt Kate is gluten-free and Madison only wants gifts relating to Taylor Swift. Meanwhile, it can feel like the average man’s contribution peaks at carrying the tree in and then asking, “So… when’s dinner?”

It can seem unfair. I’m not here to gaslight anyone into thinking otherwise.

But here’s my possibly controversial hot take: I love it. And not in a pick-me, “I thrive on martyrdom” kind of way. More like an “I secretly enjoy being the family wizard while everyone else thinks magic just happens” kind of way.

I don’t wait for the men in my life to suddenly develop the holiday gene that apparently skipped their entire chromosome and blame and shame them for it.

Seeing posts galore on my feed of viral “Ugh, men!” messages over the holidays bothers me. The negativity spreads like wildfire, planting bitter seeds in the minds of women who may not actually mind drowning in holiday activities, but now are made to feel like victims.

The negativity spreads like wildfire, planting bitter seeds in the minds of women who may not actually mind drowning in holiday activities, but now are made to feel like victims.

My stepdad is a wonderful man. He can rewire a house, quote every line from Top Gun, and once I believe he fixed a tractor with duct tape. But ask him to buy a gift for his own wife and he freezes. “Does she… like candles?” he’ll ask, as if candles are an exotic new technology.

So every year I swoop in. I make his list, stalk Amazon like a benevolent intelligence agent, pick the perfect scarf that says “I know you love dinner parties and quiet luxury,” wrap it and top it with a bow. Yes, it’s more work for me. Yes, he could learn. But here’s the part nobody posts in their viral, divisive rant threads: I actually enjoy it.

There’s a sneaky little thrill in being the person who makes other people feel loved without them having to do the heavy lifting. When my stepdad hands over that beautifully wrapped box and my mother tears up because “he remembered I collect vintage egg cups,” he gets the credit and I get the warm glow of being the holiday puppet master. It’s the same dopamine hit people get from throwing surprise parties, except I do it annually and nobody ever finds out I’m the mastermind. Or, at least, we all pretend that’s not the case.

Maybe that makes me a sucker. Or maybe it makes me loving and smart.

Because somewhere between the fiftieth trip to Target and the tenth batch of cookies, I realized something: the holidays were never supposed to be a 50/50 spreadsheet. They’re supposed to be about joy, generosity, and the absolutely wild story of a God who became a baby in a barn to spread wisdom and love to all of His children. Because love doesn’t keep score. The wise men didn’t bring gifts because Mary posted a registry; they brought them because a spark deep within them recognized holiness and wanted to respond.

Somewhere between the fiftieth trip to Target and the tenth batch of cookies, I realized something: the holidays were never supposed to be a 50/50 spreadsheet.

We’ve turned Christmas into a perfection pageant, and then we’re shocked when many men, who were never socialized to care about matching gift bags or homemade cinnamon rolls or aesthetic Christmas decorations, opt out of the competition. Of course they do.

One overlooked aspect in the polarizing narrative of female victimhood during the holidays is the substantial effort most men do invest, often in distinctly masculine ways. They handle much of the physical labor: stringing up Christmas lights, securing the tree to withstand a cascade of ornaments, and hauling heavy loads. Many also take on driving, cooking, and gift shopping and wrapping duties themselves. And honestly, the majority contribute significantly financially to create those enchanting family mornings.

We don't need to make Christmas this impossible standard to live up to. Yet every year, the goal post inches a little further. Suddenly we’re coordinating matching reindeer sweaters for the annual photo where at least one child is one blink away from a meltdown. We’re piping gingerbread cookies into festive tins for neighbors we only wave at in passing. We’re dragging everyone downtown for “magical” parade seats that come with thousands of tourists and zero parking. We’re staging Elf on the Shelf like it’s a Hollywood production. None of this has to happen. Unless you genuinely want it to. So much of the holiday pressure is a matter of mental perception and the choices we make. You can make your season simple or elaborate, peaceful or Pinterest-coded, and the stress will rise or fall accordingly. If you love the details, great. But don’t expect the men in your life to obsess over them with the same devotion you do. That part, for better or worse, is usually on us.

As for me? I’ll keep orchestrating the magic. I’ll keep buying the thoughtful presents for the men who would otherwise give a Home Depot gift card. I’ll keep baking the cookies that make everyone say “I’m going to gain five pounds because of you!” Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because there is deep, loving joy in being the keeper of wonder for people who would be lost without me.

And if that makes me the chief elf while certain gentlemen remain cheerfully clueless on the couch? Fine. More cocoa for me.

The tree will sparkle. The kids in the family will believe in magic. The men will still be amazed that everything “just worked out again.” And I’ll be over here sipping from my mug that says “Santa’s Favorite Elf,” smiling like the smug Christmas mastermind I apparently am.

Happy holidays, ladies. May your wrapping paper be plentiful, your tape never run out mid-gift, and your heart remember that sometimes the greatest gift is letting yourself love people exactly as they are, whether they put the same level of effort into the holidays or not.