I don’t understand blingy Christmas trees.

You know the ones.
Perfectly color-themed. All champagne balls. Or all white. Or all white with one daring accent color, aesthetically pleasing and emotionally bland. They’re very pretty. They photograph beautifully. They say things like “We commit to an aesthetic.”

But our trees say something else entirely.

One of our trees, the main event, the big one, the one that requires a planning permit and physical stamina, is thirteen feet tall and absolutely unhinged. It holds 175 ornaments, and not one of them is there “just because it looks nice.”

Every single ornament is a receipt.

Proof of a life in motion.

There are skating teddy bears. Hockey Santas. Hockey skates. Personalized Christmas hockey pucks. The works. There are so many hockey ornaments because our oldest son played hockey for twenty-five years. He started at the tender age of two. An age when most children are still learning how legs operate. If you follow the lower branches upward, you can basically track his entire childhood season by season.

My other son? A Renaissance man.
Baseball. Basketball. Swimming. Diving. Piano. If there was a sign-up sheet, he was on it. His ornaments zigzag across the tree like a confused but enthusiastic résumé.

And then there’s my daughter, who was lovingly, but firmly, relegated to princess crowns, soccer, and horseback riding. She competed in hunter-jumper, sailing over gates and fences with confidence, while I reconsidered every life choice that had led us there. Her ornaments sparkle with tiny tiaras and horses, balancing out the hockey chaos and the sport-of-the-month era of her brothers.

This tree doesn’t match.
It documents.

We also have memorial ornaments because life keeps moving, even when people don’t. Parents. Loved ones. Yes, our former dog. And yes, our late parrot, too. They belong there because the tree isn’t just joy; it’s memory. It’s who came before. Who stayed and who shaped us.

And now, we’re running out of room.

Upgrading the tree is being seriously considered because shedding ornaments is not an option. You don’t retire memories because they no longer fit the aesthetic. You buy a taller tree and deal with the ladder logistics later.

And then, because this house operates on long-term obsessions, we have a Star Wars tree.

This one belongs to my husband.

For the past 28 years, ever since he became a father, we have purchased every single Star Wars ornament Hallmark released. Every. Year. Without fail. This tree takes three hours to set up, from lights to tree topper, and he is thrilled by this fact. It lives in a less prominent location, because… well… it’s Star Wars. But he is deeply proud of it and entirely unbothered by how much effort it requires.

As he should be.

Because here’s the thing:
I don’t want a tree that just looks pretty.
I want a tree that tells the truth.

I want a tree that says this is who we were, this is who we are, and this is what mattered and still does. I want to stand back and laugh at the chaos and recognize every moment hanging there: every sport, every obsession, every loss, every ridiculous phase we survived together.

Trendy fades.
Memories don’t.

And if your tree doesn’t match anything else in the room?
Good.
Neither does real life.