A Sentimental Christmas Gift They'll Open a Year From Now

If you're looking for a sentimental Christmas gift, here's one that doesn't get opened on Christmas. It gets opened a year later.

The idea: you write that person a letter now, in December. On Christmas you don't hand over the letter, just a note saying it exists. They'll read it twelve months from now, when nobody remembers this Christmas anymore. It costs nothing, it takes an afternoon, and it's one of the few presents people actually keep.

Why it beats the personalized mug

Here in Spain, where I live, a lot of families do presents twice: at Christmas and again on January 6th for Three Kings' Day. Twice the wrapping paper. And I still couldn't tell you what I got two years ago.

That's not the gifts' fault. We ask objects to do a job only words can do. The photo frame, the print with a nice quote, the "World's Best Sister" mug: they all represent a feeling instead of saying it, and they say it in catalog language. What you actually wanted to tell her (that you watched her push herself too hard this year, that you're a bit worried, that you still think about when you shared a bedroom) doesn't fit on a mug.

Then there's the noise. Eight presents get opened in an hour, and yours is competing with the other seven for attention that's already used up. A letter with an opening date solves both problems. Everything you want to say fits, and it arrives on a day when nothing else is going on.

There's a bit of research behind this, with caveats. In 2017, Cindy Chan and Cassie Mogilner published experiments in the Journal of Consumer Research comparing material and experiential gifts. Experiential gifts did more to strengthen the relationship between giver and receiver, and the reason was the emotion people felt while experiencing them, not how much they liked the gift. Those were specific studies, not a law of Christmas. But they fit something you've probably noticed yourself: you remember what happened to you better than what you were given. A dated letter is an object that triggers an experience a year later. And unlike a dinner out, the paper stays.

How to do it

1. Choose when they'll read it

One year is the easy default: long enough for life to have moved on, short enough that the letter doesn't sound like it's from another era. Some dates work especially well:

• Next Christmas, so the gift comes full circle.
• Their birthday, which is usually a lot quieter than December 25th.
• A day you know will be hard: the anniversary of a move, the month a big exam ends, a year since something that hurt.
• "Open when…": the day the thing they're working toward finally comes through. No date; they open it when it's time.

2. Write what you don't say out loud

It doesn't need to be well written. It needs to say what never gets said at the dinner table. I'd put four things in it:

• How you saw them this year, specifically. Not "you've been so strong." More like "I saw you getting up at six to study after a full day at work."
• Something you're grateful for and never mentioned. The smaller and older, the better. The big things have been said already. The small ones haven't.
• What you hope for them, without hidden advice. Not "I hope you finally quit that job." More like "I hope you're somewhere you don't have to make yourself small."
• A snapshot of right now. Where you all live, who's unwell, what you're worried about, what you've been laughing about lately. It's what will feel strangest to read in a year, and what will be worth the most.

Most of the rules for writing to yourself apply here too, so this guide on what to include works just as well when the letter is for someone else.

3. Decide how to deliver it

• Sealed envelope, handed over. Give it on Christmas with the date written on the front and a promise not to open it early. Works with people who keep promises. Handwritten, it also leaves them your handwriting.
• Envelope in safekeeping. Give them only the note; you, or someone you trust, keep the envelope until the date. Removes the temptation.
• Scheduled letter. Write it, pick the day, and it arrives on its own. The only option that doesn't depend on anyone remembering. That's exactly what Letter to the Future does, and it works for letters to other people too.

4. Write the Christmas note

People skip this part, and it's half the gift. One line is enough: "I wrote you a letter. It'll reach you on December 25th next year. You don't get to read it today." That sentence turns the present into a wait. For months, that person knows there's something written about them, tucked away somewhere.

What to say, depending on who it's for

An example

I made this one up so you can see the tone and length that tend to work. A woman writing to her younger sister, to be opened in a year:

Laura,

I'm writing this on December 22nd at the kitchen table while Mom argues with the oven. You get in tomorrow night. When you read this it'll have been exactly a year, and I hope the oven survived.

I'm not giving you this tomorrow, just the note. I've wanted to tell you a few things all year and there's never a way to do it at the table.

First: you did something hard this year without any drama. You started studying for the bar in March while working full time, and I saw your light on at six in the morning more often than you know. I never heard you complain. I'd have fallen apart.

Second: thank you for coming over that Sunday in October. You didn't have to, and we didn't talk about anything important. We watched a terrible movie and you left at eleven. Best afternoon of that month, and I never told you.

Third, the harder one. I think you ask too much of yourself and you've gotten used to that being normal. I won't tell you what to do. I just want you to ask yourself, when you read this, whether you went a little easier on yourself this year.

For the record: Dad's better but still won't see a doctor. I've been at the new job four months and still don't know if I like it. There are nine of us this Christmas, and Grandma's missing. First year without her. Nobody says it, but you can feel it.

What I hope for you: that you passed. And if not, that you didn't take it as a verdict.

Love you. I don't say it enough.

Emma

What I like about it is what it doesn't do. No advice, no year-in-review, no attempt to sound wise, not a single line that could be printed on a mug. Three specific things and a snapshot of one house in December.

Mistakes that ruin it

• Writing it in a rush on the 24th. The gift is the time you spent on it, and it shows. A quiet evening a few days before is plenty.
• Turning it into a speech. The moment you're reaching for the perfect line, go back to something concrete: a day, a place, a thing that happened.
• Sneaking in advice. "I hope you finally make up your mind" isn't a wish. It's a criticism with a bow on it.
• Promising what you can't guarantee. A lot happens in a year. Talk about what you hope, not what you promise.

"But my family needs something to unwrap"

Fair enough. Kids are watching, or presents go around in turns and an envelope looks a bit thin. Tuck the note inside something small that makes sense: a blank notebook, a decent pen, a nice envelope with the date handwritten on it. Something to unwrap that night, while the real gift arrives months later. (We're also working on an English edition of our Letter to the Future journal, with letters to write by hand, seal and open on a date you choose. You can join the list there.)

That's the thing about this gift: it happens twice. Once the night you tell them it exists, and again the day they finally read it. And when they open it, there won't be a pile of wrapping paper or anyone watching their face. Just your words, a year later.

If you want to write it now and have it arrive on the exact day, you can do it for free on Letter to the Future.