Real Is Rare: Escaping the December Sequel Trap By Dean Attwood, Mindset and Performance Coach and Anxiety Expert
Sequels are risky, right? For every Godfather Part II, there’s a Speed 2 And let’s not even mention Grease 2...
Most sequels don’t fail because the story’s gone, they fail because the intention changes.
The first film is born from raw vision, emotion, and authenticity.
The second often carries the weight of expectation, bigger budget, higher stakes, the pressure to outdo what came before.
It becomes less about creation, and more about recreation.
And that’s exactly where so many of us find ourselves in December.
The final month of the year arrives like the sequel to everything we’ve already lived through and suddenly, there’s pressure to make it bigger, better, more memorable.
We chase the same emotional impact as last year, or the one before that.
We feel the need to deliver a “perfect ending” to our personal film, the flawless family photo, the smiling gatherings, the sense that it all somehow came together.
But just like in Hollywood, when we try too hard to recreate magic, we often lose the very thing that made it real in the first place.
December starts to feel like the grand finale – the one we never asked to direct.
There’s this silent expectation to tie everything together, to be ok, to show progress, to look like we’re fine…
And just like a sequel, that pressure can quietly erode the original vision of who we are and what really matters.
December brings with it a strange cocktail of emotions; part celebration, part exhaustion.
We crave rest but feel guilty for slowing down.
We want connection but dread the noise.
We long for time off, yet fill it with plans, obligations, and “shoulds.”
There’s the financial strain that hums in the background.
The endless social comparisons — who’s hosting, who’s travelling, who’s “winning” at life.
The fatigue that creeps in after a year of giving more than we’ve had.
And for some, the deep ache of loneliness that no amount of glitter or good intention can disguise.
We try to stage-manage it all, forcing smiles, wrapping fatigue in festive paper, scripting joy we don’t always feel. Gifts and good intentions, hoping it’ll feel the way it’s supposed to.
Because somewhere inside, many of us have absorbed the belief that a “good year” needs a perfect ending.
That we have to finish strong, smile wider, make it look like we made it.
But the truth is, not everyone wants to celebrate.
Some of us are just desperate for the credits to roll, to close the chapter on a year that’s taken more than it gave.
Some are quietly carrying loss, worry, or exhaustion and hoping no one notices.
Others are overcompensating, trying to give their kids the Christmas they never had.
Some are simply trying to fill the space left by someone who’s no longer here; a parent, a friend, a partner, a piece of us that time can’t replace.
And for others, it’s not grief or chaos but something harder to name, a kind of emotional numbness that makes it difficult to feel anything at all.
We tell ourselves we’re doing it for them, for family, for love, and maybe that’s true.
But beneath it all, there’s a deeper truth: we’re also doing it for the small, hopeful part of us that still believes joy is possible, that maybe this season will finally feel like it’s supposed to.
But what if it doesn’t need to?
What if peace was never something to make or earn, but something we keep losing sight of while trying to match the pace, the image, the life of everyone else?
Because that’s the real sequel trap. Trying to recreate what once felt good instead of letting it feel different this time.
The same way studios chase box office numbers, we chase emotional ones. More joy, more connection, more proof we’re “doing well.”
And in the rush to perform peace, we forget to feel it.
So, before we step into another December dressed as someone else’s highlight reel, maybe we pause and ask:
“Where is my peace in all this noise?”
Protecting Your Peace From Comparison Culture
Comparison is clever.
It never shouts, it whispers.
It disguises itself as motivation, connection, curiosity.
But underneath, it feeds on one quiet question: “Am I enough?”
And December? It’s comparisons favourite season.
Because comparison culture doesn’t just steal joy — it steals the silence where peace actually lives.
It thrives when the lights are brightest, when everyone looks like they are winning. And maybe they are, and that is something to celebrate. There’s room to cheer for others, even while you’re finding your own light. There’s a quiet strength in being happy for others while still learning to be gentle with yourself.
Protecting your peace isn’t about withdrawing from the world; it’s about recognising when your energy is being stolen and deciding to call it back.
The first step is noticing the noise.
The scrolling, the smiling, the endless stream of polished updates that make us second-guess our own chapters.
When we take that in without awareness, our nervous system doesn’t just observe, it absorbs.
We start to measure ourselves against the illusion of other people’s control.
So, pause.
Before you react, compare, or comment, take one quiet breath and ask:
“Is this information, or is this invasion?”
Information expands us.
Invasion empties us.
Peace lives in knowing the difference.
We talk a lot about finding peace, as if it’s something buried far away, waiting to be discovered.
But peace isn’t lost — it’s within us.
Deep under all the noise, under expectation, under the false urgency of “should.”
And our job, especially this season, is to bring it to the surface again.
That begins when we exchange expectation for appreciation.
Not what we don’t have.
Not what we’ve lost.
Not what we can’t feel right now.
But what remains, even the smallest of things;
A coffee first thing, that sharp breath in the early morning air, a friend who checks in, a moment that softens the noise, a walk around the block or creating those ten precious minutes for ourselves.
When we flip that internal script, when we double down on our own headspace and the language it speaks. We start to shift from pressure to presence.
We become less focused on what needs fixing and more connected to what deserves gratitude.
That’s also where kindness starts, not from performance, but from permission.
To be where we are. To breathe. To be enough.
So, when the noise gets loud, hear it, don’t fight it.
Slow down the breath.
Breathe in for four. Breathe out for six.
That small exhale is your nervous system’s reminder that you are not in danger, you are just overstimulated.
Old school, yes, but counting to ten has rescued more peace than any app ever will.
And when emotion builds; anger, frustration, grief, let it move.
Walk, move, give your body a gentle shake – This too shall pass.
Music, a funny video or a joke.
Slow down.
Lift something, move. Change the space... make a cuppa.
Change the body space to change the head space.
We don’t release peace by ignoring the body; we reclaim it by bringing the body with us.
Peace isn’t perfection.
Its Permission.
To rest.
To be unseen.
To stop explaining.
To be proud of progress that doesn’t fit anyone else’s timeline.
This December, may we all find the courage to stop chasing that perfect sequel, that doesn’t need to exist
May we choose peace that feels real over perfection that looks good.
May we slow down long enough to notice that the magic we’re searching for was never in the lights outside of us. It is and always will be, within us.
“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes — including you.”
Anne Lamott
So, unplug.
Breathe.
Let this season be the one where peace isn’t performed.
Because real is rare — and sometimes the bravest thing we can do is stop guarding it and simply allow ourselves to be.
Wishing you a Christmas that’s not about perfection, but presence.
One that lets you feel, rest, and remember that being here — really here — is enough.
