It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Or is it?

People enjoy decorating for the holidays, cooking, baking, writing those non-brag family letters and finding the ideal gift for everyone on their list. 

Or do they?

For some, many even, this is the most wonderful time of the year. People truly enjoy rearranging the living room to make room for a seven-foot evergreen. They look forward to lugging plastic tote bins from the garage or basement to sort through ornaments. Untangling masses of stringed lights rates as one of their top three things to do during the month of December. 

They’ve been shopping — since July — and have found perfectly personalized gifts for everyone from Uncle Todd to Grandma Susie. They anxiously await the opportunity to wrap said gifts in fancy paper with elaborate bow structures. It just comes naturally to them — this holiday magic.

And then, there are the rest of us.

It isn’t in vogue to be the rest of us. We are supposed to enjoy all of this… holiday magic. Even when it doesn’t feel magical. 

I’ve always missed out on the allure of the season. Pulling out special decorations for just one month of the year seemed like a spinning of my wheels. Baking simply produced foods I didn’t want to eat. Much of the gift-giving felt manufactured and pressure-laden. Even getting together with extended family sometimes seemed strained. For me, it was anything but natural. I used to put a smile on my face and pretend. 

I even put a dying pine tree in the corner of the living room and uttered those famous five words, “Now it smells like Christmas!”

Then I lost my husband. Not lost as in hide and seek sense. Lost as in dying.

You might think you know where this is going, but I believe I’m about turn left at the roundabout when you just exited right. Grief didn’t make my holiday angst worse. Quite the opposite.

Grief gave me holiday gifts. The gift of clarity. The gift of unapologetic honesty. The gift of not needing to follow the crowd. The gift of being okay with being okay ignoring the hoopla of the holidays.

Most in the holiday-enamored crowd don’t understand. They give me a sideways glance, a sympathetic smile and a knowing nod as if to say, “Don’t worry; it’s just grief. You’ll get over this eventually.”

But my feelings toward the holidays have nothing to do with grief. Grief has simply introduced a mindset that has allowed me to be honest about how I’ve always felt.

I’m not saying I have a problem with the reason for the season. I wholeheartedly support that. It’s all the extras heaped on top that put me over the edge. For me, it’s just too much. It feels contrived and stressful.

I’m not alone. 

According to a study by the National Alliance on Mental Illness, 66 percent of people admit to being lonely over the holidays, while 68 percent say they feel strained financially and 63 percent feel pressured to get everything done. Almost sounds like a majority to me.

A silent majority. We don’t shout about our lack of holiday spirit or sing it loudly door to door with fellow carolers; we hardly dare whisper because, quite frankly, it isn’t acceptable. 

What kind of person doesn’t dream of a white Christmas? Who, possibly, doesn’t love pinning up the garland on the staircase and the railing on the outside porch? What type of Grinch would you have to be to not embrace the idea of cutting down a tree only to bring it home and let it die in your living room?

Me. Them. Us.

There. I said it out loud.

Coming clean feels good. Not everyone walks to the beat of the little drummer boy. But if you do, I applaud you. I salute you. I look up to you in many ways. I enjoy your decor, your trees, your festive attitude and your light-up Rudolph sweater.

I just can’t be like you. And, finally, after all these years, I realize that doesn’t mean something is wrong with me, or that I’m somehow lacking because I wasn’t born with the jingle bells gene.

This realization has given me yet another gift this holiday season: the gift of peace. And that, my friends, is truly the best gift of all. 

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at slicescolumn@gmail.com.