The Internet’s Grandma Taught Me How to Slow Down and Savor the Holidays

Every year, I tell myself I’m going to have a calm, magical holiday season. Every year, I somehow end up speed-wrapping gifts at midnight, buying one more bag of “festive filler” I do not need, and whispering “this is fun” with the haunted energy of a person who has clearly forgotten what fun looks like.

Then along came the internet’s grandma.

If you’ve ever stumbled across Barbara Costello, better known as Brunch with Babs, you know the vibe immediately. She is not interested in turning the holidays into a competitive sport. She is not here to shame your wrinkled tablecloth, your store-bought pie, or your decision to use the same ribbon for three consecutive Christmases because, frankly, ribbon is expensive and life is short. Her whole message feels refreshingly human: make the season warm, make it meaningful, and for heaven’s sake, stop trying to perform joy so hard that you forget to feel it.

That lesson landed harder than a fruitcake. The more I paid attention to Babs’ advice, and the more I thought about what actually makes the holidays memorable, the more I realized that the best parts of the season are rarely the most polished ones. They are the slower ones. The soup simmering on the stove. The sentimental ornament with a chipped corner. The kitchen crowded with people who are “helping” in ways that are technically unhelpful but emotionally elite. The traditions that make no sense to outsiders and perfect sense to your family.

In other words, the holidays don’t need more perfection. They need more presence.

Who Is “The Internet’s Grandma,” and Why Does Her Advice Hit So Hard?

Babs became beloved online for the same reason actual grandmothers become legendary: she offers practical wisdom without the performance. Her content mixes recipes, household tips, hosting shortcuts, and old-school sayings with the kind of warmth that makes you feel like you’re being gently handed a casserole and a life lesson at the same time.

But what makes her especially relevant during the holidays is that she doesn’t sell a fantasy version of the season. She talks about decorating in a way that feels joyful instead of exhausting. She reminds people to accept help. She champions make-ahead dishes, easy guest setups, and traditions rooted in comfort rather than spectacle. In a world full of glossy, hyper-styled holiday content, that approach feels almost rebellious.

And honestly? It should not feel rebellious to sit down and enjoy your own party. Yet here we are.

Lesson One: Decorate for Feeling, Not for Applause

The room does not need to look famous

One of the most useful things I learned from the “internet’s grandma” approach is that decorating should support the mood of the season, not dominate it. That sounds obvious, but somewhere along the line, many of us started treating holiday decor like a final exam. We decorate for the photo, for the guest reveal, for the imaginary judges from the High Council of Seasonal Pillows.

Babs-style holiday wisdom flips that logic. Instead of asking, “Does this look impressive?” you ask, “Does this make the house feel welcoming?” That question changes everything. It makes room for candles, softer lighting, hand-me-down ornaments, favorite mugs, old songbooks, and little touches that mean something. A cheerful kitchen towel can count. A bowl of clementines can count. A wreath that has seen better days but still smells like December? Absolutely counts.

When you decorate for feeling, you stop chasing a catalog and start creating a home. That is a much better use of tinsel.

Lesson Two: Traditions Matter More Than Perfection

The tiny rituals are doing the heavy lifting

There’s a reason holiday traditions stick with us. They are emotional anchors. The same cocoa recipe. The same movie. The same breakfast casserole every Christmas morning. The same slightly chaotic cookie-baking session where someone always burns one tray and blames the oven as if the oven acted independently.

Research on family rituals has repeatedly pointed to something people already know in their bones: traditions help create connection, stability, and meaning. They make holidays feel like holidays. Not because they’re expensive or elaborate, but because they signal, “We are here. We belong to one another. This moment matters.”

That’s why the traditions worth keeping are often surprisingly simple. Matching pajamas? Great. Caroling with cocoa? Great. Writing down what you’re grateful for before dinner? Great. Making ravioli with a flour-covered countertop and a story about your great-grandmother? Elite holiday behavior.

The trick is not to collect twenty-five traditions like they’re limited-edition ornaments. It’s to choose a few that genuinely slow you down and help you notice the people around you.

Lesson Three: Food Is Memory, Not a Performance Review

Make the gravy ahead and unclench your jaw

Holiday food has a funny way of becoming emotionally loaded. It’s never just mashed potatoes. It’s “the mashed potatoes Aunt Linda made in 1998 that everyone still talks about.” It’s never just cookies. It’s “the cookies that prove I, too, can create magic and not merely panic-buy peppermint bark at the pharmacy.”

Babs’ approach to holiday cooking is the exact antidote to that nonsense. She leans into make-ahead dishes, practical prep, and family recipes that carry stories, not pressure. That mindset is pure gold. Because once you stop treating the meal like a Broadway opening night and start treating it like a shared experience, everything gets better.

People remember the smell of cinnamon, the sound of cousins arguing over icing, the uncle who slices the ham like it insulted him personally, and the child who puts six marshmallows in hot chocolate because “it’s the holidays.” They remember how the kitchen felt. They remember who taught them the recipe. They remember who was standing beside them, stealing bites and pretending it was quality control.

That is what savoring the holidays really looks like. Not a flawless spread. A lived-in one.

Lesson Four: A Slower Holiday Season Requires Boundaries

You may need to disappoint the imaginary audience in your head

Slowing down is lovely in theory and very annoying in practice. Why? Because it requires choices. It means deciding that not every event deserves a yes. It means accepting that your home does not need to smell like twelve different seasonal candles fighting for dominance. It means realizing that some traditions still matter and some are just obligations wearing a Santa hat.

This is where holiday stress sneaks in. We tell ourselves we’re creating memories, but sometimes we’re actually creating a logistics problem. The calendar gets crowded. The budget gets stretched. Expectations rise like overproofed dough. Suddenly, the season that is supposed to feel meaningful starts to feel like an obstacle course in knitwear.

One of the kindest things you can do for yourself is trim the season back to its emotional essentials. Ask: what actually makes us feel close? What leaves us restored instead of depleted? What would we miss if we stopped doing it? Those answers are usually much more revealing than whatever is trending on social media.

Maybe your family needs fewer gifts and one great meal. Maybe you need an earlier bedtime and less competitive cookie production. Maybe the best holiday upgrade is declining one event and using that time to sit by the tree in sweatpants with a bowl of popcorn. That still counts as seasonal excellence.

Lesson Five: Hospitality Is About Making People Feel at Ease

Warm beats impressive every single time

The best hosts are not the ones who look least tired. They are the ones who make everyone else feel comfortable. Babs talks often about practical hospitality: set up a drink station, put snacks out early, let guests help, do some prep ahead, and don’t make yourself the martyr of your own gathering.

That advice may sound simple, but it quietly challenges a lot of holiday nonsense. Many hosts believe the goal is to make everything appear effortless. Real hospitality works the opposite way. It creates ease, not illusion. Guests don’t need a museum tour. They need somewhere to set their coat, something to nibble on, and the feeling that they are genuinely welcome.

When I started thinking about holiday hosting this way, everything softened. I stopped obsessing over whether every surface looked “done.” I paid more attention to lighting, music, comfort, and pace. I let people wander into the kitchen. I used the good bowls, but I also used the easy shortcuts. I discovered that a relaxed host is a decoration in her own right.

Possibly the most underrated one.

How to Actually Slow Down and Savor the Holidays

A practical reset for real people

If you want the season to feel less frantic and more meaningful, start here:

Choose three anchor traditions. Not twelve. Just three. A meal, an outing, and one at-home ritual is a great place to start.

Prep earlier, not harder. Freeze what you can. Wrap a few gifts ahead. Buy extra tape before it becomes a national emergency.

Decorate gradually. Let the house evolve over a week or two instead of trying to transform it in one caffeine-fueled weekend.

Make one room especially cozy. A living room corner, the dining table, the kitchenjust one place where people naturally want to linger.

Build in blank space. A holiday season with no margin is just December wearing a fake mustache.

Tell the stories out loud. Why do you hang that ornament? Who taught you that recipe? What did your grandparents always do on Christmas Eve? Stories are part of the celebration.

Let “good” be festive enough. You are not applying for tenure in holiday studies.

The Bigger Truth Babs Helped Me See

The internet’s grandma didn’t teach me to have a more photogenic holiday. She taught me to have a more livable one.

That difference matters. A livable holiday has room for humanity. It allows for paper plates when needed, grief when it shows up, laughter that gets too loud, and recipes that come out a little uneven but still get devoured. It leaves room for the people who are tired, the people who are healing, the people who are missing someone, and the people who are trying to make new traditions without losing old ones.

In that kind of season, slowing down is not laziness. It is discernment. It is knowing that joy cannot be rushed into existence by shopping harder or scheduling better. Joy grows in attention. In repetition. In warmth. In ordinary rituals repeated often enough that they become sacred.

And maybe that’s why the advice sticks. Because deep down, most of us are not actually craving a perfect holiday. We’re craving one that feels real.

My Own Experience Learning to Slow Down and Savor the Holidays

A few years ago, my holiday strategy could best be described as “do everything, feel nothing until January.” I had lists for gifts, menus, wrapping supplies, decor themes, backup desserts, and, for all I know, emotional support nutmeg. I was busy from morning to night and weirdly proud of how exhausted I was, as if burnout were a festive accessory.

Then one December evening, I looked around my living room and realized I had created a season that looked cheerful but felt rushed. The tree was beautiful, sure, but I had barely sat beside it. I had bought special tea and never brewed it. I had planned a movie night and then answered emails through half the movie like a woman auditioning to be haunted by three corporate ghosts.

That was the year I started making small changes. Not dramatic, cabin-in-the-woods changes. Just ordinary ones. I stopped trying to cram every possible tradition into one month. I chose a few things I really loved and let the rest go. I made one afternoon just for decorating the tree, with no side quests. I baked fewer kinds of cookies, but I actually enjoyed making them. I put on music before dinner and lit candles on random weeknights so the house felt festive even when nothing “special” was happening.

Most importantly, I started paying attention to the moments I used to rush past. The first cold morning when the windows fogged up a little. The smell of cloves and oranges. The ridiculous family debate over whether a certain ornament was “vintage” or just “old.” The way a kitchen gets warmer, louder, and happier when several people are chopping, stirring, sneaking bites, and pretending they are not sneaking bites.

I also learned that slowing down doesn’t mean every holiday moment becomes magical. Sometimes it just means you actually notice the truth of the day. Someone is cranky. The pie takes longer than expected. A relative tells the same story for the fifth year in a row and somehow still forgets the ending. But because you are less frantic, you can laugh more easily. You can pivot. You can recover. The season becomes less fragile.

One of my favorite changes was creating a quiet pocket in the middle of all the noise. On one evening each week in December, I stopped working early, turned off my phone, made something warm to drink, and sat in the living room with only the tree lights on. No agenda. No wrapping marathon. No “productive” holiday task disguised as leisure. Just stillness. It sounds tiny, and it was, but it changed the whole tone of the season. It reminded me that the holidays are not just events to manage. They are days to inhabit.

That’s the lesson I keep coming back to now. Savoring the holidays is less about adding grandeur and more about removing static. Fewer distractions. Fewer obligations that don’t matter. Fewer attempts to impress people who are mostly hoping you’ll just hand them a cookie and sit down. What remains is usually the good stuff: the smells, the stories, the rituals, the people, the pauses. The things that seem small while they are happening and become enormous in memory later.

So yes, the internet’s grandma taught me how to slow down and savor the holidays. But the real gift was not a better table setting or a smarter hosting hack. It was permission. Permission to make the season feel like mine. Permission to choose warmth over spectacle, memory over momentum, and connection over perfection. Frankly, that might be the best holiday gift of all.