Every year has its challenges, but 2025 chose chaos. It was a year so relentlessly strange that simply keeping shoes on and showing up felt like an achievement. And yet, here we are. Still standing. Emotionally frayed, slightly unhinged, but alive.
Which is why, this Christmas, I am no longer asking Santa for abstract concepts like “peace,” “joy,” or “happiness.” I tried that. Instead, I am being selfish and asking for self-care. Tangible, practical, possibly pharmaceutical self-care. And since nothing says holiday tradition like rewriting a classic to reflect your current emotional bandwidth, I offer the following:
“Santa Baby, I Survived 2025”
Santa baby, slip a Xanax under the tree (or three).
Been an awful stressed girl.
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.
Santa baby, news and politics got me blue, you too?
It’s been one heck of a year.
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.
Air traffic controllers now scare me to death.
Guess Canadians are also cooking meth.
The Louvre password just wasn’t that good.
Grocery prices higher than they should.
(ba do be doo)
Santa baby, Labubu’s hot and Diddy is really not.
6–7 is the word of the year.
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.
Santa honey, one thing I really do need to read.
One or two good headlines.
Santa honey, so hurry down the chimney tonight.
Santa cutie, fill my stocking with some vino, Pinot.
A case or two will be fine.
Santa cutie, and hurry down the chimney tonight.
Just ignore my Christmas tree.
This twig cost me three-fifty.
I really need to get away
Before my tenth breakdown today.
(ba do be doo)
Santa baby, forgot to mention one little box, Botox.
I don’t mean just one shot.
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.
Hurry down the chimney tonight.
Hurry, tonight.
Tagline:
Tracy Winslow is grateful to have survived 2025 as it tested her in more ways than should be legal under the Geneva Convention. She wraps up the year with a drain full of hair, crow’s-feet the size of a pterodactyl’s wingspan, and the unsettling realization that what didn’t kill her made her stronger, which was kind of rude, really.
When she is not attempting to meditate through the latest calamity, Tracy is the owner of the Low Country’s premier yarn store, Low Country Shrimp and Knits and a college professor who is grateful for a break from having to explain that yes, the answers need to be in Spanish - as they are taking a Spanish class.