Am I The GRELLA?
*The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Rewritten*
In a cave up high on Mount Whoville’s peak,
Lived a Grinch, but not like the one you’d seek.
She wasn’t mean or green with a heart full of frost,
She was sly, sharp, and often at a cost.
Her name was Grella, with hair wild and frayed,
Her thoughts were as twisted as the games she played.
She’d sneer at the Who’s as they caroled with glee,
And mumble, “Their joy isn’t meant for me.”
But it wasn’t just hate that made her so cold,
It was the emptiness, the sadness untold.
For Grella had lost, long ago, in the night,
The Christmas she cherished, the spark and the light.
Her heart was in pieces, her spirit was lost,
Her love for the season had been crushed by the cost.
She thought by stealing, by taking away,
She’d somehow find peace, or make her pain sway.
So she slinked through the town, with a plan in her mind,
To steal every trinket the Who’s left behind.
The stockings, the presents, the lights on the trees—
All vanished in shadows as silent as breeze…
HEY HAYLEY !!
‘Oh, look at you all, so bright and cheery’. ‘Enough with all the jolly stuff and let’s start today’s blog’.
Right…
Am I well?
I am not going to lie to you, sis- this month makes me a bit funny. If I could avoid December, or even Christmas all together I would.
Why?
Because it is just an annoying time of the year. Everyone’s in love and being jolly, people are outside singing Christmas carols- bro SHUT UP. The majority of you lot cannot sing.
Sorry, I am doing a bit too much, but this time of the year is extreme. Why are we decorating places and putting up trees? You’re just causing unnecessary mess and raising your electricity bill—do you know that? And then everyone’s doing Secret Santa at work and “Friendmas”… yeah, get a bloody grip.
No, it’s the Christmas Jumpers for me.
No, it is the little children thinking Santa Clause is real for me.
Sis, literally, it turns midnight, we scream “Merry Christmas” to each other, then eat and maybe open up presents—if you’re lucky enough to even get one. Then, for the rest of the week, it’s leftovers. You can’t take it anymore, so the remainder of the month and January is just you struggling to make ends meet. Yeah, count me out.
So, am I the Grinch, or Grella (female made up version)?
I promise you I wasn’t always like this.
Let’s go down memory lane.
Hmm, let’s see how far back I have to go to remember a decent Christmas.
Yep, back when I was 6 or 7 years old—or maybe older, I don’t know—just back when my grandma lived in London. There was one time we all spent Christmas together. It was my uncle’s family, my auntie, and my family. We have a big family, but they’re scattered across the universe.
The adults bought presents for the kids, and the women did the cooking—mostly my grandma (she had the fat arms with the elbows, so you know it slaps). It was the best Christmas EVER! We ate (you know Africans, we remixed the British Christmas dinner with Ghana Sunday specials), we laughed, we even danced to Christmas songs, and then watched Ghanaian movies. Back then, it was Agyo Koo and Nana McBrown. If you know, you know. If you ever watched Kumasi Yonkoo, hit me up.
It was a lovely time—no arguments, just unity and love like normal people.
Back then, we had some sort of Christmas every year.
I remember those days when my mum would take us to Wilko to pick out our Christmas tree and decorations. When we got home, we’d play music while decorating. My mum would buy spring rolls from the Chinese food market, loads of Shloer packed in her bloody trolley (I’m not joining that trend, I promise you), and we’d pretend it was alcohol. If you were really lucky, my mum would buy a bottle of Baileys and Lambrini and let you try just a sip with ice. My mum is a lightweight, so you’d get half of what she had, and that wasn’t even a shot.
Probably the reason I was never able to drink like the Nigerians or like any of my friends, when I used to drink.
I remember my aunties and mum making kebabs (beef suya), and as it was being fried and placed on the tray to be assembled, we kids would take turns stealing the meat from the silver tray. Later, we’d sneak into the fridge to grab Supermalt—the cold, chilled one—so we could feel it go straight down our oesophagus.
I can’t lie, as kids, we were set up good because everyone could cook—everyone except that one auntie. Even my dad. If he made a meal for you today, you’d fall into a food coma. That man can throw it down in the kitchen. No wonder why he was a catch—coming like Jamaican men, no talking, just tasting. I don’t know any man who can outcook my dad—not even Jamie Oliver. I knew if he’d ever spent Christmas with us growing up, it would’ve been a wrap. But hey-ho, God knew why he didn’t, innit?
Back then, I loved Christmas. It was so nice. I felt like we were actually a family, going to church together, going on family day trips. We were united. I remember when my aunties would come to our house, and my mum would do their hair. I remember when my grandma would bake cakes, pies, and scones with us or bake and call us to come get it. It’s from her that I got my love of baking and sharing, because that’s what my grandma used to do. But she’s back in Ghana now, and we don’t keep in contact because of the family split. Sometimes, I really miss her because I feel like once she went to Ghana and stopped coming back, the family just crumbled. Now, you can’t even find the pieces—it’s dust. Christmas, for me, died at a young age, and there could have been more reasons for that than I could’ve understood at the time.
Then, obviously, becoming homeless at 9 years old and seeing the world for what it was, my family losing a lot… Christmas was never the same. I remember trying to bring the spirit back when I was around 13 or 14—doing most of the Christmas shopping and the cooking, but it was never the same. I would become so stressed and deflated when my efforts didn’t bring any joy. My mum would just stay in her room, and then the day would end with one of us siblings having an argument. The end.
Christmas in my family was written off for me after the rape. I didn’t have the energy to try anymore. The icing on the cake was that December was Judas’s month…his birthday. Everyone was wishing him well, and here I was, sitting in my room, destroyed. December really became a cold month for me, physically and emotionally. My home life wasn’t great at all.
I think everyone at home knew there was no Christmas spirit left, so they started going to the stepdad’s family for Christmas and New Year, and I’d stay home, watching Bridget Jones with my fake champagne.
It hurt me a lot, sis. If I don’t say I’m lying, I was better off spending it alone than in that chaos.
Especially 2014, like I mentioned above when the rape happened. I can’t even tell you how I was feeling. I felt so numb, so small, yet so hurt and so afraid because he was telling people we had sex, especially some of the older kids I used to be friends with, their younger siblings. I felt like he did that to make me feel cornered and stop me from telling the truth. I was just watching some of his people snap, enjoying the season, knowing what he did carefree. And here I was, unable to connect the dots, not able to lean on anyone. The end of 2014 was so hard. I may have looked like I was okay, smiling and holding my head high, but I was done. You could’ve pushed me over, and I wouldn’t have gotten back up. My stomach always felt like it was in knots, and whenever I came into contact with familiar people, my heart would race. I felt like I needed to vomit.
Over time, my memory slowly unlearned all the Christmas songs and traditions. At this point, I’d have to use ChatGPT to even recall a full Christmas song. (I’m exaggerating, but honestly, I don’t even know one fully.)
When I was 18, I stopped spending Christmas by myself or with my family and started going to my friends’. I didn’t treat it as a festive season, but more like a motive, a way to get together with my people. I preferred it to being home in my thoughts because, as you know, from November onwards, the season has always been a challenging time for me.
I started buying Christmas PJs for my friends’ Christmases as a sign of respect. Also, because my friends would call me “bad vibes,” and I didn’t want them to start digging into my “whys.”
Do I wear those PJs now? Nope.
But what I will say is that I’m very appreciative of the fact that I have people I spend time with who uplift my spirits. People—sorry, family—not bound by blood, who love me and see me as their own. They’ve contributed to my healing journey without any of us realizing it. Their embrace during this season has changed me.
And it really all comes down to things like them adding me to the group chat, discussing what we’re wearing, what we’re bringing, and who we’re buying gifts for. Though I still don’t see Christmas as anything special, I see how they’ve made me feel special by making me part of their family.
Who knows? Maybe as the years go on, my feelings towards the festive season will change. Or maybe it already is changing, and I don’t even notice. It’s just me—I tend to not notice change until it’s a boom, a big difference.
My hands and my brain are exhausted now. I’m going to crawl back into my bed and do nothing for a bit.
Hold on let me put in my last stretch.
I know the holidays can feel like a lot. If you’re like me and Christmas feels more like a burden than a blessing, you’re not alone. Sometimes, the noise, the expectations, the forced cheeriness—it can be too much. And maybe, just like me, you’ve found yourself wanting to hide away or disconnect from it all. But what I’ve realized over the years is that it’s okay to feel however you feel. It’s okay if you’re not “festive” or if Christmas doesn’t hold the same magic for you as it does for others.
We don’t have to fit into anyone’s version of what Christmas should be. Our journeys are unique, and our healing is personal. And sometimes, healing happens quietly, in the small moments when someone sees us, understands us, or even just welcomes us—without judgment. Sometimes it’s not about celebrating Christmas in the way society tells us we should, but finding comfort in the people who truly make us feel seen, no matter the time of year.
So, if this season feels heavy, remember that it’s okay to take a step back. You don’t have to play by the rules. You don’t have to do it all. Just be kind to yourself, and know that you are not alone in how you’re feeling.
The holidays don’t have to be perfect. Life doesn’t have to be perfect. But the love and warmth we share with those who lift us up—that’s what really matters. And maybe, just maybe, as we keep going, we’ll learn to find joy in unexpected places, even if it’s just a little at a time.
To anyone out there who’s struggling, whether it’s with the holidays, with family, or with life itself, please know that your feelings are valid. Take the space you need, breathe, and keep moving forward. Some days will feel lighter than others, and that’s okay. You’ve made it this far, and that’s worth celebrating.
We’ve got this. You’ve got this.
So, I will see you at another day for another blog
&
Stay blessed xxx
…But as dawn started breaking, her heart gave a shake,
She heard something stir—a noise she’d forsake.
The Who’s gathered ’round, with laughter and cheer,
They sang songs of hope, and it became clear—
The Christmas they’d lost wasn’t gifts or bright things,
It was the love, the joy, the togetherness it brings.
Grella stood frozen, caught in their glow,
Realizing the truth she had yet to know.
Her heart, once broken, began to repair,
Not with presents, but the warmth in the air.
For the Who’s didn’t need all she’d taken that night,
They just needed love, a reason to unite.
Grella returned every gift, every light,
And she smiled for the first time that Christmas night.
Her heart grew three sizes, and with that, she found,
The true meaning of Christmas was all around.
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