The Christmas gifts we secretly wish we would receive in 2025 A heartfelt letter to Santa Claus
Dear Santa Claus, this year I’ve been pretty good, or at least I tried. I worked like a mule, listened to half the world’s venting, pampered my dog as if he were the last puppy on Earth, and smiled even at people I honestly would’ve preferred to ignore. And all of this while trying not to collapse under bills, instability, disaster-news overload, and a global future that feels like it was written by a screenwriter on strike. So yes, I deserve a gift. Maybe even two. Maybe three. World peace would be great, of course. But in the meantime, if you felt like leaving a nice package under the tree... I wouldn’t be offended. Books, vinyls, daily cinnamon rolls, Haribo candies, a minimal Chevalier ring for my pinky, a no-logo bag, skincare that actually works and doesn’t cost a kidney, and maybe, since we’re dreaming, a penthouse in Barcelona to start my life over. And then all those gifts we don’t say we want because they don’t sound cool. But cool compared to what, exactly? For Christmas I’d like warm hands and feet, an oversized men’s pajama to live in, slippers that look like stuffed hamburgers, an essential keychain, a proper turntable, a mattress worthy of someone who hopes to sleep more than three hours, good tea, and of course something for the dog, who is the only consistent love in my life.
2025 unlocked us: no more fake-cool gifts
The truth? We don’t care about looking perfect anymore. We’re done with the aesthetic neatness of the “always tidy room”, the 24/7 glazed skin and the minimalist life where every object has some spiritual meaning. We want things that make life softer. More comfortable. More ours. If you give me a pair of heated gloves that aren’t hideous, I’ll thank you with tears in my eyes. Maybe throw in some statement socks. If you gift me a giant blanket that looks like a rich, eccentric grandma designed it, I’ll consider it couture. If you give me a book by an author I truly love, even if it’s not a bestseller and doesn’t scream performative male (or, in my case, female), I’ll hug you. If you make me (or buy me, that’s fine too) my favorite dinner, you’re changing my whole day. Or at least my mood. Because luxury today is feeling good.
Usefulness, chic and brutally honest
Yes to useful gifts—but beautiful, soft, with a design that doesn’t make me look like I’ve given up on life. We don’t want “responsible adult” objects. We want things that are practical *and* express who we are. A premium mattress? That’s self-love. A men’s pajama to wear outside with red lipstick and an oversized coat? Practically political. Cups, trays, colorful plates? A breath of fresh air. A nice piece of underwear? Never refused. And honestly, who doesn’t need hair ties, clips, and accessories?
Technology that simplifies, not complicates
Don’t get me anything with 18 linked apps, 12 mandatory updates, and a manual that reads like the thesis of a Swedish engineer in burnout. I want tech that doesn’t judge me, that doesn’t try to optimize my life while making me waste an hour setting a password requiring three emojis, a circumflex accent, and the blood of a virgin. I want simple objects that just do their job. Like a good turntable. Maybe with a few records from my favorite artists. And while we’re at it, a pair of headphones that sound great, full, warm, round, but don’t hurt my ears after twenty minutes. A smart kettle, yes, but not too smart. A gadget that cleans the house for me? Yes please. One that cooks for me? Even better. And then a tracker to find my keys, because at this point I can’t even find myself anymore. And if you really can’t, at least wrap a nice keychain.
Real self-care
The polished self-care aesthetic, straight out of a tutorial with ambient music and a fake-spiritual clean girl sipping warm lemon water at 6 AM, with two blooming orchids on the table (as if keeping them alive were actually possible)? No, thanks. Exhibition self-care doesn’t interest me. Please get me products that truly work, not just ones with museum-worthy minimalist packaging. Let me find creams under the tree that save my skin when I’m stressed, not translucent gels promising “ethereal glow” while in real life I have three stress breakouts, chaotic sleep, and a call in five minutes. Real self-care doesn’t judge me if I remove my makeup lazily, doesn’t impose ten Korean steps, doesn’t force me to drink matcha when all I want is a coffee that hits like a punch in the stomach. It’s indulgent, sensual, imperfect. It’s the barrier cream I use when my skin feels tired, the vanilla-scented lip balm, the hot bath I take even if it’s not 100% “eco-friendly.” And most importantly, true self-care includes the dog sleeping on my legs, the weighted blanket pressing me gently into the couch, the good tea that smells like wood and spices. It doesn’t have to be photogenic, it has to be healing. It doesn’t have to be trendy, it has to be mine.
So, dear Santa…
So yes, Santa Claus, I’m not asking for the impossible. Or maybe I am, but at least I’m being honest. I don’t want gifts to show off, pretending I’ve figured out how to live. I want things that help me breathe better, sleep longer, make life feel softer even when it’s rough like sandpaper. Give me everything that’s warm, useful, beautiful, imperfect, soft, practical, sparkling. Give me objects that speak my language and not that of the trend cycle. Give me everyday magic and that small dose of luxury that doesn’t need to be flaunted to be real. And yes, I know the world out there is burning, imploding, getting messier by the day. But that’s exactly why I (and maybe all of us) need these small things to remind ourselves we’re still here, that we deserve a bit of sweetness, that we’re stronger than we think.
