There is a song that many people no longer really want to hear.
Not because it’s bad, but because it has been worn thin by repetition. Played too often, too loudly, and too predictably every December. Driving Home for Christmas has become seasonal background noise for many.
Yet, stripped of overuse, it still describes those last days before Christmas with remarkable precision. Not the celebration itself, but the in-between. The slowing down. The sense that something is about to pause.
To me, the music is something to cherish. Warm, restrained, almost understated. It’s less about the road and more about the state of mind that comes with leaving one phase of the year behind. Yes, I admit, I like that song, and I do not switch stations when it plays on the radio.
Today feels different because I’m not behind the wheel. Instead of traveling along those never-ending stretches of asphalt that weave through the countryside, I’m soaring home, feeling the joy of flying.
This journey home feels so personal and meaningful. As I walk through Berlin Brandenburg Airport, I’m wearing my Sunflower Lanyard, which has brought me a comforting sense of safety over the past year. It’s not about shielding or explaining myself, but about sending a gentle signal. Creating space, encouraging patience, and fostering understanding, often without needing to say a word.
I notice something almost immediately. The atmosphere feels different. Quieter. Softer. Less charged. The usual airport urgency seems dialed down, as if even the building itself has agreed to slow its breathing.
At the security checkpoint, the staff is surprisingly welcoming. Not just friendly in a rushed way, or distant, but genuinely calm, open, and human. I can’t quite tell if it’s real or rehearsed, but it doesn’t really matter. What matters is how good it feels to experience this, and how that feeling tends to spread. Calm has a wonderful way of making everything feel a bit more reassuring.
Spending the waiting time in an airport lounge is, undeniably, a luxury. I’m aware of that. And today, even this space feels altered. Fewer voices, fewer restless movements, fewer glances at departure boards. Everything seems slightly muted.
Is it the days before Christmas?
Or is it simply because it’s Sunday and not a regular weekday?
I don’t know. And for once, I don’t feel the need to decide.
Instead, I take the moment as it is. I sit with the quiet. I let it settle. I pack it carefully and carry it with me, not just onto the plane, but into the coming week.
Not driving home for Christmas.
But traveling home was a little calmer than arriving there.
Edited with help of Grammarly
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