10 ADHD-Approved Ways to (Barely) Survive Christmas Chaos

Every December, I swear this will be the year I nail Christmas. Presents wrapped early, dinner prepped, no tears shed. Instead, ADHD, chronic illness, and my overcompensating brain combine forces, turning the holidays into an Olympic-level juggling act—knitting socks for 25 people, panic-buying scented candles no one needs, and trying to balance two extended families spread across every postcode in the UK.

Somewhere between Lincolnshire, Somerset, and my nephews’ ever-shifting uni addresses, I lose all sense of time and reason.

This year feels harder. My mum is very poorly, my dad’s beyond exhausted, and I’ve had to hand Christmas Day over to my sister because my body just can’t. The guilt is real, but so is the lesson: Christmas doesn’t have to be perfect to be magical. If you’re nodding along, fellow neurodivergents and spoon-counting comrades, here’s how to (mostly) survive the season.

1. Time Blindness Meets December 24th

Time blindness means my brain genuinely believes I’ve got “plenty of time” to prep—until it’s December 24th, 9 p.m., and I’m frantically knitting the final toe on a sock while hunting for wrapping paper and sellotape like a feral animal.

One year, I went to “quickly” buy a gift on Christmas Eve and returned three hours later with nothing but a Greggs pasty, two packets of batteries (for no reason), and a profound sense of failure.

Quick Tip: Break tasks into tiny, non-terrifying pieces: “Wrap one gift today.” Set alarms because ADHD brains need reminders that time is both real and merciless—like Mariah Carey, lurking in the background.

2. Spoon Theory and the Limited Energy Reality

For those unfamiliar with spoon theory, it’s a metaphor for managing energy when you have a chronic illness. Each task takes a “spoon,” and when you’re out of spoons, you’re done. At Christmas, my spoons vanish faster than a tin of Celebrations in a house full of teenagers.

This year, my mum’s health and my dad’s exhaustion weigh heavily. I’ve handed Christmas Day over to my sister—because my spoons are running on empty—but the guilt still creeps in.

Quick Tip: Protect your spoons like they’re gold. Prioritize what really matters. A pre-made M&S trifle costs you no spoons. Loving your family, even imperfectly, is priceless.

3. Overbuying Presents and the Scented Candle Apocalypse

It starts with good intentions. Thoughtful gifts. Handmade socks. But then the spiral begins: Is it enough? Will they love it? What if I’ve ruined Christmas forever? Suddenly I’m panic-buying novelty slippers, weird bath sets, and enough scented candles to qualify as a fire hazard.

The Lesson: I stick to socks. Socks are love. Socks are dependable. Sure, I’ve cried over a misplaced stitch, but they’re a gift I know my family appreciates (or at least pretends to). When I’ve tried knitting something “fancier,” it’s backfired. Stick to what works.

4. The Overthinking Avalanche

Nothing triggers ADHD decision fatigue like gift-giving: Do I get the teacher a gift? The postman? Does Aunt Joan really need that fondue set? Add in my nerdy tendencies, and I can spend hours researching obscure model train parts for my dad, only to realise he hasn’t touched a model train since the ‘90s.

Quick Tip: Set clear, simple rules: One present per person. That’s it. And when you feel yourself spiraling into a “research rabbit hole,” ask: Is this about them, or am I just having too much fun nerding out?

5. ‘Good Intentions’ That Never Happen

Every year, my Pinterest board overflows with homemade wreaths, gingerbread houses, and perfectly frosted cookies. Every year, ADHD looks at me, smirks, and reminds me I’ve lost three hours deciding between two cookie recipes.

One Christmas Eve, I tried to “whip up” shortbread for my neighbours. I burned the first batch and burst into tears, muttering, “Why didn’t I just buy the Tesco ones?!”

Quick Tip: Let go of the Pinterest perfection. Store-bought is fine. A text that says, “Merry Christmas, thinking of you,” counts as a card. Christmas isn’t a competition.

6. My Kids Melt Down Because I’m Melting Down

Turns out, kids are emotional mirrors. If I’m spiraling—knitting furiously, stress-wrapping at midnight, crying over misspelled cards—my kids feel it, absorb it, and join me in the meltdown. Neurodivergence runs in our family, so they overthink their Christmas lists, obsess over their own “perfection,” and get overwhelmed too.

Quick Tip: Step away when the chaos builds. I’ll hide in the bathroom for five minutes, breathe, and reset. When I’m calm(ish), they’re calmer too. Kids don’t need perfect—they need me, showing up the best I can.

7. Christmas Lists That Become Chaos Lists

I start with a master list. I lose it. I rewrite it. Then I forget the list even exists and panic-buy an “emergency gift” that no one asked for. One year, I found my Christmas plan under the sofa… in March.

Quick Tip: Digital lists are life-changing. My phone now holds every sock size, address, and gift idea. If I lose the phone, well… we’re back to square one.

8. Expectations Are the Enemy

Somewhere deep down, I feel Christmas has to be perfect—to make up for the divorce, to prove I can do it all, to create magic for my kids. I know it’s ridiculous, but every year I push harder.

Here’s the thing: perfection isn’t what my kids remember. They remember the year we forgot to defrost the turkey and had “Pizza Christmas.” They remember laughing at our wonky tree. They remember me.

The Lesson: The magic isn’t in the perfect—it’s in the wonky, ridiculous, human moments.

9. Nerdy Tangents and ‘Who Is This Really For?’ Gifts

Raise your hand if you’ve spent hours researching a “cool and thoughtful” niche gift, only to realise it’s way more about your interests than theirs. I’ve bought Viking history books for people who barely know what a Viking is. ADHD + nerd brain = a dangerous gift-giving combo.

Quick Tip: If you’re spiraling down a gift rabbit hole, ask yourself: Who is this really for? Then step away.

10. Remember: Chaos Can Still Be Magical

Christmas is messy. It’s socks with slightly wonky stitches. It’s my sister taking over the cooking while I try to keep my spoons in order. It’s my parents sitting quietly in the background while the kids unwrap gifts too quickly. It’s imperfect. It’s enough.

This year, I’ll knit my mum the softest socks I can manage. Maybe she’ll notice, maybe she won’t. But I’ll know. And that’s love.

If Christmas chaos feels inevitable, you’re not failing. You’re not alone. Give yourself grace, embrace the mess, and remember: the imperfect, human moments are the ones you’ll cherish most.

Now, let’s survive this together. Maybe check out the cards i created? Mostly for myself - in my etsy shop; mini mindfulness cards to help me get through. They might help you too! :)

https://mindfulcanvasdigital.etsy.com/listing/1804359760