When I was growing up, Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year. It still is, don't get me wrong.

I can see myself, vividly, a little girl in a green and red dress with a bow in her hair running around her grandmother's Christmas Eve party with the children of close family friends—grabbing food, talking to people, singing a bit. I'm smiling. I was never not smiling at those parties.

Everything was so perfect. The house was full and every inch was decorated with red, green, and gold. You could very truly feel the Christmas spirit. Nothing was ever wrong. Nothing went wrong. It was just so perfect. Too perfect, I daresay.

My grandmother ordered and cooked Armenian delicacies, as was natural for us to do on holidays. Guests carried festive drinks. My mom played the piano as people sang along to Christmas carols. The lights were dimmed and the tree was lit, exploding with fancy ornaments and colors. The fireplaces were aflame.

People were happy—at least, they always seemed happy. Families were together. They were mostly friends of my grandparents, there with their own children and grandchildren. They were people I had seen many times before, and could name too.

I distinctly remember being small enough to weave in and out of the small congregations of people because I was too shy to talk to some.

But in other instances—if I knew a family well—I was more than willing to talk. I can see it now, as strange as it sounds. I must have looked so tiny standing next to my grandparents' friends.

And then morning would come and my parents and I would go back to my grandparents' house to open gifts. The house was usually somewhat disorganized. There was gift wrapping and empty champagne glasses scattered about. Some people had left scarves. Not all of the food had been put away. The decorations were still beautiful, just a little disheveled.

The house was warm and cozy, a little emptier, but still ringing with the voices of people who had been there the night before.

My grandparents, aunt, uncle, mom, dad, and I crowded around the kitchen table for a Christmas breakfast. We ate eggs and basturma—spiced, cured beef—another Armenian tradition. We ate choereg, the equivalent of challah, with jelly and butter. We drank orange juice and tea.

We probably reflected on the night before. We talked about the people we talked to and the food and how nice the house looked.

Of course, I was always the first one raring to open presents in the next room.

We took turns going around the living room. Everyone opened one gift at a time.

And it was like this for many, many years.

These Christmas Eves and Christmas mornings are by far the greatest memories I have of my childhood. Thinking back, it seems like it comes from a storybook. It almost doesn't seem real.

But now things are different, and it's kind of hard to explain when they changed. In all honesty, it happened progressively. It was not an immediate transformation.

The gist of my family's Christmases is exactly the same, only everyone has gotten older. My grandmother has not thrown a big Christmas party in about eight years. Instead, our immediate family goes out for dinner.

I remember being sad when I found out there would be no more parties. But my grandparents were getting older and it got to be a lot of work for them to throw a party and be standing on their feet the entire night. On top of that, I realize now that my grandmother and mother and aunt weren't really able to enjoy each other's company, or that of the guests, because they were preparing food. I never noticed this when I was young.

Bitter but true. I also didn't realize that some of the people at these parties, particularly my grandparents' older friends, were sick. Many of them have died. I didn't realize that in 2008 and 2009, several of our family friends were dealing with extreme problems related to their jobs.

Additionally, people had lives. People had school and jobs and bills and other family to worry about. A brand new year was about to start and people had to think ahead.

I didn't realize that it was never as perfect as I thought it was.

I suppose my vision of Christmas, though not terribly different, has changed in retrospect. The love and festiveness is still there. But perhaps, no one was as carefree and joyous as I was as a child, and in many ways, that makes me sad.

The other thing that has changed, for better or for worse, is me. It's not necessarily about no longer believing in Santa or the holiday spirit, as it is about growing up. Christmas, I realize, is a wonderful time to celebrate in spite of everyday stress and problems, in spite of school and social life, in spite of trying to get my life together.

It's an annual break period—an annual opportunity to reflect. And even if it is (very literally) just for a few hours, it's a chance to enjoy something a little different from the everyday grind. It's a chance to celebrate and appreciate your life.

With this in mind, I still view Christmas as a happy time—a time to enjoy family and friends. A time to put all other worries—because there are many—on the back burner. That's what my grandparents' guests seemed to do at the parties. That's what my family does now. And that is what I do too. It's what everyone does.

I will continue to change, and my memories of Christmas will as well. And that is not a bad thing.

I would like to believe the Christmas spirit is still somewhere inside me. It's inside all of us, we just have to make sure that we let it shine through—something that was much easier to do when we were young.

Nevertheless, I do look forward to it. It's a wonderful time of year.