When it comes to Christmas, I am a slow burner, and do not approve of early celebrations. Prior to December 1st, even the merest snippet of a carol or whiff of a mince pie is liable to send me into a rage. My family are not of the same mind, and eye me with bemusement as I refuse to join them in their early November stollen-fest. My reticence remains even as Advent makes its entrance, and I become prickly if someone dare suggest putting up the tree earlier than the 15th.

This attitude might not be a problem in some households, but my family Does Christmas. From the stroke of midnight on the 1st December, my mum’s face takes on a particular glow, full of innocent childlike excitement. She decorates the house bit by bit, starting with the advent calendars (at least three), followed by an advent candle with numbers embossed in gold, which she lights late every evening. Small ornaments then appear piecemeal around the house: a silver-flecked reindeer on the mantelpiece, a gold string of stars hung above the mirror. By the time the tree is in state, the house has undergone a sumptuous transformation. By night, it positively glitters.

We also take Christmas food very seriously. We make traditional mince pies, German gingerbread stars, middle-eastern-spiced mixed nuts and occasionally a bûche de Nöel. December evenings are inevitably finished with oven-hot chestnuts, dried figs and whole walnuts, usually crushed by hand in front of a Christmas film. No single cultural thread ties all of these dishes together, they are simply a compilation of traditions that now come as a firm, unquestioned set. They are as ritualised as our Boxing Day board games, and the Nat King Cole Christmas album we listen to year after year.

As much as I look forward to the season and all the family rituals, I still find myself reluctant to open the gates to the festivity. If I hear a Christmas song on the radio in early December, I will turn it off. I will strongly resist watching my favourite Christmas films and will avoid panettone consumption until the last possible moment. I tell myself that it’s due to the over-commercialism of the festive season: the forced jollity, the tacky decorations and the general consensus that the correct way to pass the time is to mindlessly spend and consume. This is all true, but it’s not the whole story: it’s actually because I care about Christmas so much, I’m terrified of anything ruining it for me — as though hearing Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire one time too many would sour the whole period and lead me to resent it. The Christmas season has always felt as precious as a glass bauble: beautiful, but desperately fragile. I look back on the Christmases of my early childhood with emotion and nostalgia, and every year I seek to honour those memories by carefully unwrapping and admiring them. But I am constantly frightened that I will clutch too tightly to foregone festive joy and smash the memories to pieces. So I meter my dose of Christmassyness — allowing myself just enough, and at just the right time.

However, this year I feel different. I have looked at festive window displays and not felt the urge to run in the opposite direction. Clementines, persimmons and pomegranates have been bought, and there are two poinsettias in the flat. There’s even a Christmas cookbook out on the coffee table. I am poised to fling myself into the season without hesitation: bring me carols on Classic FM, bring me indefensible Hallmark Christmas films and a kitchen thick with the fug of mixed spice. I can tell that others have been feeling the same way: trees and lights and dubious Santa inflatables have adorned my local streets for nearly six weeks already. No doubt people have been making up for lost opportunities in 2020, hoping to eradicate the past 18 months with a very healthy dose of festive cheer and an extra tot (or nine) of Baileys. And who can blame them?

I can only presume my urge to start baking gingerbread and brew mulled wine — bearing in mind I’m teetotal — comes from much the same place. No one has escaped the icy touch of this pandemic, and though I consider myself to have been very lucky throughout, I will still be chalking up 2021 as one of the worst years on record. The autumn has felt particularly menacing, with bad news arriving from all sides, horrors appearing at every turn and the darkness quietly stealing in earlier each day. A fortnight ago I attended two funerals in two days. If ever a reason were needed to fill the place with evergreen boughs and soft candlelight, I believe this would be it.

Overcoming darkness with light seems to be intrinsically connected to the celebration of Christmas and its pagan predecessors. Jesus is often described in Christian liturgy as the light of the world, whose coming at Christmas was marked by a great star. During the Roman festival of Saturnalia (which also took place in late December) citizens of the Empire celebrated Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, meaning “the birth of the unconquerable sun”, lighting and exchanging candles as gifts. Going further back, winter solstice celebrations in the Neolithic period were intended to mark the end of darkening days and the rebirth of the seasons. It seems as though December has always been marked by an abundance of man-made light, in a joyful rebellion against the darkness. I can think of no better way to mark the end of this blisteringly painful year than with a defiant burst of luminescence — a shot of hope in the dark.

As such, I plan to embrace this festive season with gusto. I will buy strings of lights and branches of mistletoe for my flat, I will bake with abandon and submerse myself in an atmosphere of generosity and goodwill. I will try to suppress my cynicism and anxiety and unwrap my Christmas traditions with excitement and glee. The last 18 months have proved that very few things in life are fixed and certain — joy cannot be stored up and protected like a glass ornament. It must be embraced wholeheartedly at every possible moment, because it is fleeting. I need Christmas and its message of peace and joy; I think we all do. In a few weeks it will be over, and the cold light of January will illuminate our struggles afresh. We need to bathe in Christmas’ warmth and light, and hope we absorb enough of it to carry us into the new year with a little more strength, a little more hope. A mince pie might be all it takes.