Every December, we convince ourselves we want to find the perfect Christmas tree. The tall one. The full one. The one with branches so symmetrical they look like they were styled by a professional. We scroll, we wander lots, we debate, we second-guess. And sometimes, we miss the point entirely. Because let’s be honest, perfect is overrated. Perfect is boring. Perfect doesn’t teach us much of anything.

The trees that catch my eye are the ones that lean a little to the left. The ones with a missing branch that somehow makes room for your favorite ornament. The ones that look like they’ve seen a few winters and lived to tell the tale. Those trees aren’t flawed, they’re experienced. And isn’t that a lot like us?

We spend so much of our lives trying to look the part. To smooth out the rough edges so we fit neatly into what the world expects. But life doesn’t work that way. Life bends us. It takes a branch here, stretches us there, and leaves us standing slightly crooked — but we're stronger for it.

I’ve learned this the long way. My life hasn’t followed a perfect blueprint, and I stopped wishing it would a long time ago. What it has given me is perspective, grit, humor, and a deep appreciation for stories, the kind you earn. That mindset didn’t come from chasing perfection, it came from accepting reality and choosing to decorate it anyway.

A Christmas tree with character doesn’t apologize for what it’s been through. It simply shows up, ready to be part of the celebration. It doesn’t ask if it’s enough. It just stands there, quietly saying, "This is who I am. Take it or leave it."

And here’s the magic: once you bring that tree home, once you string the lights and hang the ornaments — especially the ones with memories attached — you stop seeing what’s “wrong” with it. You start seeing why it’s perfect for you.

The holidays have a funny way of holding up a mirror. They remind us of who’s missing, what’s changed, and how much we’ve grown — often without realizing it. They ask us to sit with both joy and grief at the same table and pass the salt and pepper anyway. There’s nothing perfect about that, but there’s something deeply human in it.

So this season, I invite you to stop chasing perfect — whether it’s the tree, the meal, the family photo, or yourself.

Choose character, the stories. The version that’s real, resilient, and standing (maybe a little crooked).

Because in the end, the trees we remember most aren’t the flawless ones. They’re the ones that held the memories. And that’s where the real magic lives.