The Gifts We Don't Wrap, Part One

Every year at Christmas, the internet floods with gift guides and shopping lists. It's a world-wide collection of "Top Ten Stocking Stuffers for Your Wife" and "Tools Your Husband Wishes He Had." We scroll through endless curations of "Christmas Gifts for Christians"—or writers, or musicians, or athletes, etc.

What's weird is that there's one specific thing most people want more than anything, regardless of size, shape, color, religion, or political standing, and it's hardly ever on any of those "Meaningful Holiday Gifts" lists—because emotional presence, meaningful connection, and relational mindfulness are gifts that aren't things. Maybe that's why they seem small, or maybe it's because we live in a fast world, a hustle culture that taught us time is money, validating others makes you a simp, and asking for empathy and compassion is seen as weakness rather than humanity. 

We treat the gift of attention like a priceless and limited commodity that must be rationed—or something manipulative to be wary of—and it's not because we can't see the hurting people around us. The truth is, we all know someone healing from trauma, someone scarred by invisible wounds that usually aren't as invisible as they seem. We see them feeling unseen. We hear them beg to be noticed. We know their hunger for compassion and connection. And we brush it off. 

In fact, we literally call it a "cry for attention," even as we withhold the dignity and humanity of being heard and valued. And when those unseen people in society silence themselves like babies who stop crying when no one comes...when they break down or give up...we gasp collectively and wonder "why they didn't say anything." 

Then, of course, we have endless talks about the importance of mental health awareness or emotional well-being. We read (or write) articles about reclaiming identity, emotional resilience, mindful living. We create calendar days for noticing people or supporting friends, and we talk about the power of listening like it's complicated spellwork, rather than the simple act of showing up for others with gentle compassion. 

But the need for attention isn’t borne of vanity or ego. It’s the outward presentation of the most basic human hunger—the hunger for connection. Which is why, when it comes mindful giving (especially at Christmastime), I truly believe the gifts that matter most are the ones we can't wrap.

When I was little, it wasn't exactly safe to be seen. On a good day, being visible only meant being in the way—but on a bad day, visibility made you a target. Asking questions was nosy, answering them was backtalk, and emotional expression was usually frowned upon, if not punished directly. Once, my cousin and I got sent away from the dinner table for laughing. 

By middle school, I learned that being invisible wasn't any better. Walking softly meant I was sneaky, speaking quietly sounded like mumbling, and keeping to myself seemed to prove I was arrogant or thought I was better than everyone else. I was so closed off that one year, my grandmother hid all my Christmas presents in her bathroom just to see what would happen. I sat in silence on the floor beside the tree and watched my cousins open piles of presents, trying to cover heartache with a smile.

When everyone was finished, my grandma gave me a curious look, went to her bathroom, called my mother for help...and they came out with their arms full of gifts, just for me. 

Maybe it was just a prank, but the humiliation of being so purposely and publicly set aside still lingers decades later, like a cloud of bad cologne. And I will never stop wondering what might have happened if I had allowed myself to react. I was twelve years old at the time, and the fact that I knew better by then breaks my heart.

The thing is, with or without childhood trauma, most of us can look back and see the moments that shaped us. For better or worse, those emotional memories become the very bricks that pave the paths of our lives. 

My childhood is why I value kindness, safety, routine. And maybe in some ways, it's why I write—to offer healing through storytelling, the seed of which was planted (quite ironically) by my father. 

One of his favorite zingers was a sharp, "You writin' a damn book? Well, leave that chapter out!" He'd shake his head, satisfied with my silence, perhaps unaware of the sting, and move on. And now, writing reclaims the voice I was forced to silence and the depth I was forbidden to share. It recounts every chapter I was told to omit. And in doing so, it lets me offer something priceless to people who feel as unseen today as I did back then. 

I don't share these stories to shame the people involved, or to garner pity, or even to "trauma dump." I share because I want people to know they're not alone. Because I want them to know that emotional neglect and healing are not mutually exclusive.

And because the hard truth is, the older I get, the more I see those same patterns everywhere. The elderly, the homeless, the overlooked, the inconvenient. We swat away their stories and sidestep their needs. We look past their humanity—and we tell them, without ever saying a word, that they are burdens.

We forget that listening is love in action, that attention affirms value, that presence offers dignity. And that the absence of those things leaves a wound only healed by the giving of those things.

Your ancient Granny might have plenty of non-slip socks, and she probably doesn't want to complete yet another puzzle alone. Your Papaw probably doesn't need another screwdriver; I bet he's good on wrenches, too. And your loved ones won't treasure a bad-guess gift that only highlights how little you know them. 

So maybe this year, give gifts that don't need wrapping.

Instead, take a loved one to lunch. Ask them to tell you a story. And listen—truly listen. I bet they light up like Christmas trees.

*****

In a season that often seems overrun by sales and obligations, sometimes even gift-giving can feel like a hassle. And I think that's why I keep circling back to this truth: the best gifts we give each other aren’t things. They’re moments. A shared meal, a story learned, a memory created. Showing love through actions that don't come with gift receipts. Being present for loved ones—instead of buying presents for loved ones.

When I look back at Christmas past, I don’t usually remember specific gifts from particular years. What I remember are the moments I felt unseen—and later, the value I placed on the moments that made me feel known. As an adult, I understand that both kinds of memory shaped me, taught me who I want to be, and helped me recognize how I want to love people.

Maybe you’re feeling it, too. Maybe you’re exhausted by the pressure to perform Christmas “correctly,” or you’ve got someone in your life who's hard to shop for, hard to reach, or hard to read. Maybe you feel that way yourself. Maybe the holidays are a lonely time for you, and the constant sense of celebration makes you feel like an outsider.

If you're nodding along with any of that, let me tell you what my younger self would have given anything to hear: your presence is a gift. Your attention is a gift. Your listening is a gift. You are a gift, simply because you exist. And these gifts don’t just fill stockings—they fill the hearts of the people we touch.

So as we move through this holiday season, I hope you find ways to honor the people you love, not with perfect presents, but with attentive presence. I hope someone invites you into deeper connection. I hope you find the courage to accept. And reciprocate.

Because if we could stop hiding the good gifts in the bathroom, and start placing them in other's hearts instead, maybe it wouldn't be so hard to...

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