Lights. Camera. Pasko!

Christmas has always arrived early where I’m from.

At home, the signs would show as early as September. The Christmas tree would already be out, decorations slowly appearing day by day. Some ornaments were mismatched, the lights never worked all at once, and the tinsel always seemed a little tangled — but that was part of it. Christmas didn’t suddenly start for us. It eased its way in, quietly reminding us that no matter how heavy the year felt, this season would return.

Growing up, Christmas wasn’t just a date on the calendar. It was a feeling that slowly built itself into everyday life.

I remember waking up to Christmas songs playing from the church speakers as early as 6 a.m., the sound drifting through the neighborhood as people rushed to prepare for Simbang Gabi. Streets felt alive even before sunrise. By the time night came, the roads were filled with parols — some handmade, some store-bought — hanging outside houses, stores, and tricycles. We always made sure to keep coins in our pockets, ready to hand out to kids and groups who would come caroling, guitars slightly out of tune but voices full of excitement.

Back in grade school, Christmas meant carol competitions. It wasn’t enough to just sing — we had to perform. We’d come up with simple choreography, props made from recycled materials, and dramatic pauses that felt incredibly serious at the time. Looking back, it was our first lesson in storytelling: how to take a familiar song and make it feel like our own.

And of course, there was Jose Mari Chan.

No matter how many times people joke about it, his music remains unavoidable — and strangely comforting. The moment his songs started playing, you knew Christmas had officially begun. It didn’t matter how old you were. The familiarity wrapped around you like muscle memory.

A picture I took at Glorietta on a day that I wasn't rushing. It felt warm, like how all Christmas nights used to feel.

At home, Christmas also meant film.

Every year, we waited for the ABS-CBN Christmas Station ID like it was an event. We’d talk about it, replay it, share it. It wasn’t just a commercial — it felt like a short film that reflected who we were that year. It showed families reuniting, people struggling, people hoping. Somehow, it always managed to say what we couldn’t.

We’d also rewatch the same Christmas movies over and over. Home Alone was a staple. Even if we already knew every scene, every joke, every trap Kevin set, we still watched it like it was new. Maybe because films, especially during Christmas, gave us something familiar to hold onto — a shared experience we could laugh at together.

As Filipinos, we place family above everything. And when we can’t always say what we feel, we turn to stories — our own, or someone else’s. We gather in big groups, eat together, laugh loudly. But we also experience lonely Christmas nights. Moments when someone is missing, when things don’t feel complete.

That’s why representation in film matters so much to us.

We want to see ourselves on screen — the joy, the mess, the longing. We want stories that reflect both the warmth of crowded tables and the quiet of empty chairs. Filipino Christmas films, station IDs, and holiday specials resonate because they don’t pretend everything is perfect. They acknowledge the reality of our lives while still choosing hope.

Film becomes our bridge. It connects generations. It helps us remember where we came from, who we lost, and who we’re still holding onto.

Christmas, for me, has always been about connection — and film plays a big part in that. It reminds me that stories don’t just entertain us during the holidays. They help us feel less alone. They give us something to return to, year after year, just like Christmas itself.

And maybe that’s why, every time the lights go up, the songs start playing, and familiar films roll across the screen, it feels like coming home.

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The FAI-nal Cut

Felicity Amber Ibrado is a Junior Copywriter / Producer for The Film Dream. She is a curious storyteller with a love for human insight, always exploring what makes people and their stories tick. Outside of writing, she’s a gamer at heart and an adventurer, endlessly drawn to discovering new places.

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