A New Kind of Advent

Student Guest Opinion

It’s the gleeful and gay holiday season, which means two things: tooth decay and seasonal depression!

While my sister and I grew up gnawing on daily peppermint Hershey’s Kisses and Santa Claus-shaped dark chocolate, we’ve gradually been drawn to alternative advent calendar ideas that aren’t as horrific for circadian consumption. You know, like a really creative pill dispenser, or a Red Bull advent calendar. (Trust me, I’ll definitely feel like I have wings after that
majestic combination for 25 days straight.)

Advent calendars initially spread from fourth-century Germany during the season of, unsurprisingly, Advent. Originally a countdown for new Christian baptisms at the start of January, the tradition developed into a Christian symbol and trademark HomeGoods holiday must-have. Between handmade Christmas clocks, cribs, and candles, the habitual German token transitioned into a communal and commercial gateway for consumers.

I’m sure there’s no better feeling for tweenage girls than waking up on the first of December and receiving a mini-moisturizer sample in your Sephora Advent, or if you’re a lunatic, opening your daily Cthulhu figure in your Lovecraft calendar. But constant consumerism has grabbed Gen Z and held us in a Chiikawa-shaped chokehold.

Gen Z was raised on the notion of “right here, right now”—even more so compared to older generations. From lootboxes to Pokémon Cards, we craved everything cast onto our YouTube homepages, in coordination with both ads and the temporarily popular toys and trinkets placed on the playground-pedestal.

Unlike our predecessors, if we really wanted something, we could immediately place an online order with our parents’ permission: it was an instantaneous dopamine hit. We related objects to being overjoyed; the more purchased, the higher the bar of buoyancy was raised, making it impossible for those my age to ever feel a satisfactory amount of delight.

To be frank, I’ve historically been a downer. Ever since the age of six, I’ve struggled to climb out of despondent dumps; through kindergarten and beyond, I would spin, spiral, and lament over every circumstance. For years, my world has continued to be frozen in a less-than-jolly shade of blue, which I would cope with through the mentality of “I need more to feel more.”

My adolescent depression didn’t rely solely on trending toys; I knew what I liked and seldom let others influence what tiny, cheapo trinket I needed to make my day. Shopkins? Creeped me out. Lalaloopsy? Lala-absolutely not. Poopsie Unicorn Slime Surprise? Do you think I’m that unsophisticated?

Blind boxes and capsule machines have always been my kryptonite: the thrill of the hunt, the dangerous unpredictability, the sobbing outside of an Auntie Anne’s because I didn’t get the specific Sonic fidget spinner I wanted. The possibility that you could get exactly what you wanted with less time and money, contrasting with the reality that you’ll always end up with something, felt like a win in all departments, regardless of the semi-permanent sensation of failure I felt.

Over time, I’ve viewed the idea of having “more” as a con. Yes, humans can always have more cheer, more spirit, more love—but on the flip side, there’s always consistently more hate, dread, and atrocities.

Gen Z continues to confuse the increasing feeling of “more” joy with the sense of releasing tension and dejection; the higher the bar is, the more drastic the dopamine drop. The more you have, the more you have to lose. If you’re consistently hopeless, how do you recognize the actual sensation of enjoyment and exhilaration outside immediate pings of short-lived dopamine through expenditure?

My personal beef with advent calendars is that they’ve evolved into an evil separate from their roots. You know vaguely what you’re going to get every time, whether it’s candy, beef jerky, or Mr. Beast toys, yet the element of surprise grants low-stakes risks. And yet the idea of a daily increase in items brings people a phony, five-second sense of happiness before having to spend half an hour scraping the snow off their car at the crack of dawn.

Some may argue that there’s nothing immediately wrong with short-lived contentment. If those five seconds are the highlight of your day and persuade you to continue pushing through the present, why not?

It’s a placebo. People, myself included, should focus on consistently gaining a sense of confidence within their contentment. Not through material toys, throw-away things, or immediate purchases, but through community and giving back, tradition, reflection, and our own potential—all elements of the holidays overshadowed by the gifts received.

Advent comes from the Latin word “adventus,” which literally means “to arrive.” Instead of an instantaneous and artificial emotional uplift, we as a society need to focus on a steady increase in joy over time. We need to focus on being present, not presents. By actively engaging and seeking out the positives in the world around us, genuine jollity will eventually come.

Tess Tarchak-Hiss is a senior at Traverse City West Senior High. She explores the world around her by writing at her dining room table while listening to Wiz Khalifa.

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