The Stories We Save for the Holidays

The holidays have a way of making everything feel closer to the surface.

Stories that wouldn’t normally move me suddenly linger longer. A line of dialogue stays with me. A familiar scene feels heavier. It’s not just because holiday films are emotional – It’s because I am. The year is ending, and somehow that makes memories louder and feelings harder to ignore.

That’s what separates holiday stories from typical emotional films for me. It isn’t just the plot or the music cue. It’s the timing. During the holidays, I’m already thinking about where I’ve been, who I’ve become, and who I’ve become distant from. Stories don’t push their way in. I make space for them.

As an only child, Christmas has always been quieter for me, but never empty. My holidays were spent with my parents and grandparents, sitting longer at the table, talking more slowly, letting conversations stretch. There wasn’t chaos, but there was closeness. Christmas felt intentional, like something we returned to every year not to escape life, but to sit with it.

That perspective shaped how I understand storytelling during the holidays.

This is the season when we meet friends we haven’t seen in months and catch each other up on the lives we’ve been quietly living. We talk about new jobs, old dreams, heartbreaks we didn’t know how to explain before. We laugh about who we used to be, and compare it to who we are now. These conversations aren’t small talk. They’re updates on our becoming.

It’s also when we gather with family and retell the past. Stories come back in fragments. Someone brings up a Christmas from years ago. Someone else fills in the details. We remember people as they once were, sometimes kinder, sometimes funnier, sometimes more alive than they feel in our memory. These stories keep the past from slipping too far away.

And then there are the visits we make quietly.

We visit those who have passed, standing in front of headstones or old photos, telling them what life looks like now. Who graduated. Who moved. Who stayed. Who we miss. We tell them our stories even though they can’t answer back, because somehow, saying it out loud still matters.

We also call the ones who are far away. OFW relatives. Friends who moved cities or countries. We try to connect them to our Christmas here. We describe the food, the noise, the weather. We tell them who showed up, who couldn’t make it, what feels the same, and what has changed. Through stories, we bridge the distance.

I think this is why we share stories so instinctively during the holidays.

Some stories aren’t meant for random days. They’re saved for December.

We tell stories to feel heard. To preserve moments before they fade. To bond without having to explain everything. And sometimes, simply because we have a story to tell.

As Filipinos, storytelling is second nature. We listen closely, even when the story isn’t about us. We find meaning in other people’s lives because we understand that connection doesn’t require sameness. It requires attention.

Holiday films work in the same way. Some show big family gatherings that don’t mirror my own experiences, but I still watch them with warmth. They feel like windows into other lives. At the same time, quieter films about distance, reflection, or absence feel deeply familiar. They remind me that there is no single way to experience Christmas.

Being an only child didn’t make my holidays smaller. It made them specific. I learned to notice details. Repeated movies. Long conversations. Shared meals that felt ordinary from the outside but meant everything to me. When I watch holiday stories now, I don’t measure them against my life. I let them sit beside it.

That’s why I believe we save certain stories for the holidays.

Because this season gives us permission to pause.To look back.To reach out.To remember.To say the things we’ve been carrying all year.

During the holidays, we tell stories not because we all experience the season the same way, but because stories give us a way to stay connected across time, distance, and change.

They remind us that even as our lives move forward, there are moments worth holding onto—and people worth telling them to.

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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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