I love Christmas. The twinkling lights. The smell of pine trees. The glow of a special kind of joy that seems sometimes dormant at other times of the year.

I love the way Christmas brings people together. The innocence reborn in youth and adults alike. The way we find time for the important things—gatherings of friends and family that often get pushed aside in the chaotic calendars full of sports and work events and all of the things that make life too busy other times of the year. Festive cards lining our bay window, filled with smiling faces and updates of loved ones from all corners of the world.

I love the memories of Christmas pasts that brim in my heart. Watching the beautiful ballerinas twirling across the stage at our annual tradition of seeing The Nutcracker. And our family visit to downtown Chicago, bundled from head to toe, peering into the lavish window displays. Stepping onto the escalator at Marshall Field’s and stepping off into the North Pole—marveling at the transformation from department store to a land of snowmen and elves, and the lull of beautiful carollers lining the aisles. Driving home through the winding roads of Sauganash, and dreamily basking in the glow of the most spectacular light displays I’ve ever seen. The magic of the day glowing in my heart as my parents carried me upstairs and tucked me into my dreams of sugarplum fairies.

I love Christmas. But I don’t celebrate it.

That often makes this time of year especially interesting to navigate. I am Jewish. And in a time, now more than ever before, sharing that piece of my identity can feel vulnerable.

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Growing up, I didn’t feel that way. We generously traded traditions with family friends—invited year after year to share in their Greek Orthodox celebration filled with Spanakopita, Chicago-style beef sandwiches, holiday karaoke, and crowding on the couch to watch The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

In turn, they would come over to our house, to light the menorah, spin the dreidel, and eat Hanukkah gelt, and latkes soaked in grease. The songs rolling off their tongue the same way mine could recite “Silent Night”.

Maybe it was how my parents made sure to immerse us in all the many wonders that December brought, whether they happened in our home or the larger world. Maybe it was that our neighborhood was a tapestry of homes sparkling with lights of red and green, standing side-by-side with houses holding only the glow of a menorah’s candles on the eight nights of Hanukkah. Whatever it was, I always felt that December belonged to us all.

But time passes, as it does, and while I still hold nothing but love for Christmas, I often feel like I’m trying to squeeze myself into a place at the December table that wasn’t set for me. I can’t help but feel a little lonely in the isolation of otherness. I often feel like now, I live on the perimeter of Secret Santa exchanges, ugly sweaters, naughty and nice lists, elves on the shelves. Everything is swirling around me like a snow globe I am standing in the middle of, but I’m not truly a part of the magical scene.

It’s not that I’m not okay with that. My family has its own December magic. We light the menorah. Spin the dreidel. Eat latkes and have eight magical nights of Hanukkah. And it’s beautiful. But, to me, it can also sometimes feel like those days are a tiny island, undiscovered by so many in the vast ocean of Christmas focus. The one endcap at the store, that is set up only a few days before, and taken down right when it ends.

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And while I still take my kids on an annual drive through the beautiful lights that warm up our neighborhood. And snuggle on the couch for marathons of Elf, Love Actually, It’s A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story, I still find myself secretly hoping for the Happy Hanukkah wishes from friends and family members who are not Jewish. I’m grateful for people who recognize when my holiday falls and ask what I’m doing for winter break rather than Christmas vacation.

And I know I could do more to share that piece of my world. I know I could start up that trading of traditions that was so special in my youth. And maybe I will.

I guess what I hope is that while keeping the magic of the season alive in December, I could try harder to invite the world to bundle up and look through my window display to see the beauty of the many other wonders December holds.