Up until September, I had lived in the same house for the entire eighteen years of my existence. Same neighborhood full of familiar faces, same cherry trees in the front yard that I loved to climb in when I was younger. The house was situated in Summit, New Jersey, a nice, suburban town full of peaceful streets and cute shops. Some of my fondest memories of the Summit house come from all the Christmases we celebrated in it - 17 to be exact (one year we went to the Philippines for winter break). That house was a huge part of our Christmas tradition, of course.

Every year's Christmas was as familiar and precious as the last. Two and a half weeks before Christmas, my dad, my twin Morgan, and I would go out to the same farm and choose the perfect tree: 7 feet tall, bushy, and triangular. Our dad would take the same old saw and chop down the tree we had dubbed worthy, strap it to the roof of our car, and drive it home. That night, we would decorate it with the same, beloved ornaments, and admire our work. My dad said the same thing every year: "This tree is the best one yet!" On Christmas Eve, our grandfather would come over for dinner, which would consist of stone crabs, lamb chops with mint jelly, stuffing, and various sides: mashed potatoes, squash soup, and roasted brussel sprouts with chestnuts. Dessert always consisted of a fruit pie and ice cream. Afterwards, we'd all cram into the car and drive around, admiring the luminaries that our entire neighborhood had set out along the streets. When we'd get home, my dad, my grandfather, and I would play pool. Finally, after Morgan and I got ready for bed, our dad would perform the most cherished tradition of all: reading "The Night Before Christmas" to us from this really old book his mother had read to him when he was little. In the morning, we'd open our presents and eat the bagels and lox my dad bought for us from the same bagel shop he goes to. And with the exception of our trip to the Philippines, these traditions happened every year without fail.

This year is going to be different.

My parents decided to get divorced after Morgan and I graduated. When Morgan and I weren't in school, we were going to be living with our mom in our house down the shore, while my dad would live in an apartment in Hoboken. My childhood home was officially sold when I was at UCLA, and until I came back for winter break, the reality of it hadn't hit me. Christmas was going to be extremely different.

I'm no xenophobe, but I can't say that I'm not upset. This year we're celebrating Christmas at my mom's house. Morgan and I went with our mom instead of our dad for the first time to a new Christmas tree farm to get a tree. It was a little under 7 feet and had a gaping hole at the back. Some woman cut it down for us, and all our decorations were at my dad's apartment, so we couldn't decorate it until the following week. I sat staring at it that night. It was so sad: no lights, no decorations, nothing. I whispered, "you're not the best tree yet." Not even close.

The tree was a menacing reminder of what was to come on December 25th. I started thinking. Is my grandfather coming? (He's on my dad's side of the family and we're celebrating at my mom's). How are we supposed to play pool if we don't have a pool table here? I asked my mom if the residents of Oceanport (my beach house's town) did luminaries. Nope, they don't. I asked my dad about reading "The Night Before Christmas" and he told me that our family book was somewhere in the confines of a warehouse, along with the rest of our stuff, displaced from the move. Where the hell are we going to get bagels from, and are we getting them at all?! Was Christmas going to be ruined? It sounded like it would be. It felt like someone was ripping a carpet out from under me and I was falling, like how Santa falls down chimneys except there wouldn't be any magic to break my fall. Eighteen years of tradition down the drain. It was devastating. Not even watching Elf could lighten my mood. Here we are, a week from Christmas Eve, and I'm left struggling with the definition of Christmas itself.

All of this boils down to one question: Is Christmas without tradition still Christmas?

After pondering this question for days and consuming too many Christmas cookies for "brain food", I've come to a conclusion. Even though I'm not 100% convinced myself, the Who's of Whoville were right in saying that nothing can stop Christmas from coming, and therefore Christmas will still be Christmas, timeless traditions included or not. Because what is Christmas about, really? It's not about decorating trees, the presents, or whether or not you get to see the luminaries. It's not about where you get the bagels from in the morning or even if you get bagels at all. It's not even about keeping your winning streak in pool. What matters is being with people who you love and who love you back; being with your family, that's the spirit of Christmas and everything else, tradition or not, comes second. I found out that my grandfather is, in fact, coming, we're still having our same Christmas dinner, and my dad will just read "The Night Before Christmas" from his iPad.

So yes, this year is going to be different from the past eighteen years. Actually, Christmas will never be like how it was in the Summit house again and it may hurt to realize (sort of like a tiny elf is jabbing my heart with a pointed candy cane, actually), but I'm just glad that I was lucky enough to have those traditions for so long. I will cherish them forever. And let's be real, my dad probably couldn't take another year of me kicking his ass in pool so...

Anyway, have a Merry Christmas, traditional or not!