Every year, as the winter season begins to cast its familiar glow across neighborhood streets and homes fill with the scent of evergreen and cinnamon, I undertake one of my favorite small rituals: taping every Christmas card I receive to the interior side of my front door. The result is a collage that greets me each time I pass through my entryway—a vibrant mosaic of smiling faces and cheerful messages from friends and family. Their photographs and handwritten notes remind me of the ties that stretch across distance and time. Occasionally, I pause to reread the warmly written updates some send—the summaries of the year’s milestones, weddings, graduations, new jobs, and newborns—and I’m struck anew by how these cards capture snapshots of lives in motion. The colorful designs, shimmering foil embellishments, and careful lettering add a vivid burst of festivity to my home, transforming even the quiet corners into spaces of joy and connection.
While many people, once the season concludes, quickly gather their cards for recycling, I cannot bring myself to discard these small treasures. Instead, I take deliberate care in removing each piece from the door, one at a time, undoing the tape gently so as not to tear the paper. Each card is then filed away chronologically, forming a growing archive of sentiment. Over the years, I’ve accumulated nearly a decade’s worth of these mementos—bundled carefully and stored away, awaiting the distant day when I will sort them by sender. My plan is to create personalized albums, each holding a timeline of correspondence, before returning these cherished collections to their original authors. In doing so, I hope to give my loved ones a truly meaningful keepsake—a tangible reflection of enduring relationships and the passage of life.
My guiding idea has always been to wait until the oldest card from each sender reaches about thirty years of age. Three decades, I’ve always thought, is enough time for life to undergo profound transformations—for children to grow up, families to expand or move, careers to evolve, and for the subtle shifts of time to make such mementos all the more poignant. At present, I have dedicated eight years to this little project, meaning that, if all unfolds as planned, most of my friends and family have a remaining twenty-two years before receiving their complete memory books. The timeline, however, is flexible. For friends with children, I may choose to present the collection earlier—perhaps when their youngest child graduates from high school, symbolizing the end of one chapter and the start of another. For older relatives or those whose health requires that moments be cherished sooner rather than later, I intend to return their albums much earlier, giving them the pleasure of reminiscing while they can fully enjoy it.
Whenever I imagine this future scene—my family and close friends seated together, thumbing through decades-old cards, re-reading their brief “annual update” paragraphs, and smiling at pictures frozen in youthful light—I feel a tender happiness. I can see my friend with three daughters opening her album and discovering the card she sent in 2024. She might laugh and exclaim, “Look how little you were!” to her now-grown daughters, home for Christmas with families of their own. Another friend, a neighbor of mine, might glance fondly at her 2021 card—the year she announced she was expecting—and recall the excitement of that season. My sister-in-law might trace with her fingertip the shape of her puppy captured on her 2019 card, remembering the chaotic joy of that year. These imagined moments keep my project vibrant and alive.
My tradition of saving cards began in 2018, the year that marked a turning point in my personal life: my marriage. For the first time, I was preparing to send out our own holiday cards as a new family of two. I spent hours designing them online, choosing a wedding photo that perfectly captured our happiness, pairing it with an elegant holiday template, and anticipating the joy of mailing them out. When I showed my mother the finished product, her face softened with nostalgia. She smiled and confessed, almost wistfully, that she wished she had kept the Christmas cards she had sent out when I was a child.
She reminisced about those years when she would purchase a new box of cards each December from the local stationery store, always letting me choose the design—sometimes classic snow scenes, sometimes whimsical holiday illustrations. Together we would select a favorite family photograph, make prints, and then spend long evenings writing personalized notes and addressing envelopes by hand. Yet, in all the bustle, she had never thought to save one for herself. “It would’ve been so much fun to look through those now,” she said, her tone soft with longing. She even joked that she wished she could ask someone to return a copy, though, of course, no one would have kept a random holiday card from two decades earlier.
That conversation planted the idea in my mind—the notion that I could be the one to preserve these fleeting pieces of our shared history. While many people, like my mother, naturally assume their cards disappear into recycling bins each January, some of us could become the curators of these printed fragments of memory. I realized I could take on that role: the quiet custodian of our collective past, keeping safe the greetings and well wishes that mark the continuity of our relationships. Over time, I could transform what others discard into a priceless gift—a nearly cost-free, eco-conscious token born from thoughtfulness and patience.
I am fully aware that the undertaking is a long one, requiring perseverance over decades. Yet, the eventual reward outweighs the slow passage of years. The final gift will carry immeasurable sentimental value while costing almost nothing beyond time and care. The cards, after all, are those already sent to me; all I need to do is preserve and repurpose them. Eventually, I will purchase quality photo books to give the presentation the elegance it deserves, but I have ample time to seek the best deals. And meanwhile, collecting them brings me genuine enjoyment in the present.
Each season, after the last card has arrived, I open the accordion-style folder I use for safekeeping and assign the new batch to its labeled slot. Before I file them away, I often find myself leafing through the older ones. Though my archive begins only with 2018, looking through those cards is surprisingly moving. I see friends’ faces illuminated by time, trace the small changes that hint at aging or the addition of new family members, and feel deep gratitude for the enduring presence of such people in my life.
Some cards, particularly those sent by my grandparents and other relatives who have since passed, stir bittersweet emotions. I know that they will never hold in their hands the albums I plan to assemble years from now. Yet their cards remind me of their kindness, their humor, and their love—an intangible inheritance preserved in paper and ink. Seeing their handwriting each December makes me feel as though they are still part of my celebrations.
And inevitably, as I sort through the cards, my thoughts wander to childhood Christmases spent with my mother—those long evenings at the kitchen table, signing and sealing envelopes, laughing as we struggled to fit family photos inside. She may have wished that someone had saved her cards, yet I find fulfillment in doing so now on behalf of others. In preserving these small tokens, I am not only keeping track of holiday correspondence but also honoring the spirit of connection, memory, and care that inspired us to send them in the first place.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/keep-holiday-cards-send-back-memory-book-album-gift-2025-12
