At the first blush of September, when radio stations across the country start playing “Ang Pasko ay Sumapit,” we always feel that familiar mix of delight and unease. Yes, the long Christmas season is part of who Filipinos are, but it raises a question that never quite goes away: have we stretched the celebration too far for our own good?
I say this as someone who grew up with parols blinking above sari-sari stores long before Halloween arrived. Filipinos welcome Christmas the way the rest of the world welcomes the changing of seasons—automatically, almost instinctively. Once the “ber” months roll in, the air shifts, and households start rummaging through old boxes of lights and ornaments. I feel the charm of it, that warm tug that Christmas brings, but I also cannot ignore how early this cycle begins and how easily we let it swallow four months of our year.
We wonder if this prolonged cheer is rooted in our yearning for relief. Life here has never been light, and Christmas has always been our easiest refuge—a sanctuary built of lights, songs, and rituals that don’t ask much from the soul except participation. I’ve seen how a simple jingle can lift a tired jeepney driver’s mood or how a lantern outside a home can soften the impact of rising prices. Our long celebration, then, feels like a cultural defense mechanism, stretching joy to counterbalance what burdens us.
Yet this extended season comes with its own weight. By October, malls start rolling out sales and themed events, and you can’t escape the commercial pull even if you try. I have nothing against gift-giving, but the pressure to buy something—anything—for everyone seems to grow louder each year. It turns what should be thoughtful generosity into a frantic spending spree. I often find myself wishing the celebration were shorter because the weeks-long cues seem to prod us into consumption more than reflection.
Christmas parties add another layer to this marathon. Schools, offices, barangays, and even small social groups hold their own gatherings, each with its own exchange gift mechanics and potluck requirements. There is laughter, the reunions, the unguarded moments when people loosen up—but by mid-December, the line between celebration and obligation blurs. People catch themselves moving from one event to another with barely enough energy to enjoy any of them. The season becomes a calendar race, not a quiet savoring of togetherness.
Then comes the food—the glorious, overflowing dishes that define Filipino Christmas tables. I love the bibingka stalls by the sidewalks and the smell of ham sautéing in a neighbor’s kitchen. But I’ve also seen how families strain their budgets to recreate the idealized Noche Buena spread. There’s a silent pressure to match what commercials portray, and people often sacrifice what little they have to meet expectations no one actually demanded. The joy is absolute, but so is the exhaustion that comes with trying too hard.
Still, I cannot deny that this long celebration binds us. It gives towns color, keeps traditions alive, and somehow brings out a friendliness in people that is harder to find the rest of the year. When I walk through streets lit by parols crafted by local hands, hear children practicing carols, or watch a family decorate a modest tree together, I’m reminded why the season feels sacred. Amid all the excesses, a core of sincerity remains—warm, familiar, and unmistakably Filipino.
And maybe that is where the balance must lie. Filipinos can keep this extended Christmas, but we need to reclaim it—strip away the noise, temper the spending, return to the parts of the season that nurture rather than drain, and focus on the real celebrant—the Lord Jesus Christ, whose birth has gifted mankind with a savior and eternal life. A celebration that lasts a third of the year doesn’t have to consume us; it can shape us, gently, into a people who celebrate not because we’re pushed, but because we choose to value what truly matters.
