It was over Christmas break in my freshman year of college that I wrote a letter confessing my love. I was better at confession back then because it had only been a few years since I did so regularly. Religiously, even.

The Christmases that followed over the next couple of decades with the recipient of that letter saw love exploding all over the place. The magic of Christmas migrated from my parents’ house to our off-campus housing, then to our studio apartment on Bleecker Street. Friendships and traditions that live to this day were born in those early yuletide seasons where I learned that Christmas, like all good things (and it is one of the best things), is all about love.

There is a reason, you might even call it a trick, that Christmas is celebrated at this time of year. The trick always worked on me: Late December is not the worst time of the year, it’s the best. The darkness and cold outside are overwhelmed by the light and warmth inside.

The love that blossomed from the seed of that letter became even more exciting than Christmas, and it lasted all year. Over the years, as the excitement fades, it is replaced with something more profound, something that transcends time in a way that is impossible for something as transitory as excitement. It is something that is beyond words, something that you have to feel to understand. Kind of like the Christmas spirit.