Cutting Down a Christmas Tree: Reclaiming What Convenience Stole

10 Dec, 2025

When did buying a Christmas tree become a transaction instead of an experience?

Somewhere between big-box stores and pre-cut lots, we lost something.

Last weekend, I found it again.

There were a couple tree farms fifteen minutes from our home, but I didn't have high hopes. They were small, we were in New Jersey, and I figured all the good trees would be gone.

Even still, we grabbed our coffees and drove out.

The moment we pulled up, I knew this place was different.

We parked at the end of a long, winding driveway. There were rows of Christmas trees spotted across the property, with hops growing in the front yard and beehives tucked away in the back. Men in red shirts moved with purpose, each knowing their role.

One directed me to Bob, the owner.

Bob gave me the rundown: This was the only organic Christmas tree farm in New Jersey. No spraying, minimal intervention—just nurture the saplings and let nature handle the rest. I'd pay more than I ever had, anywhere from $120-250 depending on the size and health of the tree. And stay away from the bees—there were hives adjacent to one of the christmas tree areas.

He gave me all the time in the world. No rush. Full attention. Full heart.

I was sold.

I scampered back to the car and said, “Let’s do it!”

What follows are the takeaways from my little family’s first Christmas tree-cutting experience.

...

Lesson #1: It’s never too late for firsts in life.

My wife is in her early thirties. Last weekend was her first time cutting down a Christmas tree.

Well, "cutting down" is generous. She wanted to visit a property where her husband could cut down a tree of her choosing while she provided direction and moral support.

Having a baby girl earlier this year may have been the catalyst.

Suddenly these things matter. One of her best friends was visiting from Montana, so we decided to make it a group expedition to a local tree farm.

While my fingers were crossed, my expectations were low and my wife's were nonexistent.

Happiness = Reality / Expectations

Pulling into that first farm felt like discovering Narnia in the rolling hills of Colts Neck, New Jersey.

Yes, New Jersey.

Not exactly where you'd expect to find your perfect Christmas tree experience, but that's what made it so good.

Lesson #2: The journey IS what it's all about.

As I hauled our tree up the apartment stairs, my downstairs neighbor stopped me. "Oh, you cut down a tree? That's way too much work."

Exactly.

We didn't want store-bought. We didn't want artificial. Too easy.

You lose something when things are too easy. Like the ability to complain about pine needles buried in the fleshy part of your forearm.

We wanted investment. We wanted a story. We wanted to earn our Christmas tree.

The past few years hadn't felt right. In Texas, we bought Charlie Brown trees because real ones cost a fortune and didn't grow there anyway. The last two Christmases we traveled most of December and barely decorated. We didn't even own enough ornaments to fill a single branch.

Growing up, my family would occasionally trek to Pennsylvania to cut down trees, though the ones my family bought down the street always looked better. But the cutting years were what I remember.

The experience was where the gold lie hidden.

While I definitely remember rows upon rows of Christmas trees on those massive PA productionized operations. I also remember the trees being a bit “cookie cutter” and I’m 99% sure they sprayed.

This little New Jersey farm didn’t do shit. Au natural.

Some trees looked shabby. All of them looked wild.

This is what Christmas trees looked like before social media ruined everything.

We walked the whole property and narrowed it down to three prospects. The first one (Ms. imperfect yet beautiful) stood apart from the rest.

She sat at the edge of the hops field all by her lonesome.

Wide, wide Bertha.

Strong and stout.

Filled with life.

Literally. A bird's nest and three praying mantis egg sacs clung to the branches. (Don't worry, we left those at the farm.)

We cut her down. Lugged her to the front. Waited in line. Snapped a picture. Somehow squeezed her through the baler. Strapped her to the roof. Got her home.

And last night I spent 3 hours pruning and trimming to make her somewhat presentable.

This was a wild tree.

A little more work. Another first. An opportunity to gather pine branches (for a wreath?) and fill the apartment with fresh pine scent.

The work wasn't the obstacle, it was the way.

Lesson #3: What’s wild and imperfect is us.

I can already hear the comments when people see our tree:

“That’s your tree?!”

“It’s… wide?”

“It’s not tall enough.”

Last night, after the baby finally crashed, my wife and I sat eating dinner. Her juggling chores, me half-done trimming this lopsided masterpiece.

We looked at it, listening to Christmas music, and smiled at one another.

This tree is us. Wild. Imperfect. Fully our own.

Even trimmed and dressed, she’ll have blemishes, odd angles, and surprising quarks and strengths.

She’s atypical. And honestly, that feels right. The past convenience I used to so value never felt this joyful.

This one does. I know where she stood. I know she had the potential to be some plaza showpiece (maybe even Rockefeller Center-bound) before I chopped her life plan in half.

And somehow that makes me love her more. She’s a reminder of that feral, honest part of us we spend years sanding down.

I’m imperfect. So is my wife. We all are. Yet, we also all try to hide it under some false facade of what we believe other people want to see in us.

And now, our tree sits there, stout and stubborn, reflecting that truth back at us every single day.

Embrace what makes you you.

The bird’s nest and the three praying mantis cocoons we found in her? Perfect. Proof that being wild means being alive.

Maybe that’s why she hits so hard now that my life is mostly “Data Science” and keyboard clacking.

Anything that lets me touch dirt, break a sweat, be a little crude, a little classic-man stupid (ie. fires, beers, tools, trucks) feels like reclaiming some piece of myself I didn’t realize I was missing.

So this tree? She’s our Johnny Cash middle finger in the air Christmas tree.

She’s wild. And I love her.

Lesson #4: Haste makes waste.

We cut the tree on a Saturday and left her bundled on the porch overnight. The plan was simple: set her up Sunday night, trim later in the week and use Sunday day (before the Bills game) to meal prep and get ready for work. Adulting.

Then my wife’s friend nudged—repeatedly (I love you Haley) that we should put the tree up before she left so she could admire it.

Against my better judgment, I caved.

We wrestled the tree into the stand. And I stood there trying to figure out how to shape a six-foot woodland linebacker ...

It wasn’t until I stepped away that I finally exhaled and asked: “What am I doing? And why now?”

The Bills were kicking off at 1. I had stew to prep, meals to make, a lingering cold to shake off. None of this was the plan. None of it felt right.

I grabbed the hand-clippers I’d set out for, went home, and (frustration leaking through) informed the house that we wouldn’t be trimming tonight.

We didn’t know what the hell we were doing, and rushing it would only make a mess.

Plus, kickoff was in under an hour and I had vegetables to dice. Priorities.

My wife's friend understood, and life rolled on.

Funny how I’m not much of a people-pleaser out in the world, yet when someone stays with us I turn into Mr. Overextend. This was a gentle reminder ...

Don’t rush what takes time.

The tree sat untouched for two nights while I figured out what she wanted to become. Cut too much and you can’t put it back. Cut too little and she would've stayed a little too butch.

You can’t hurry (im)perfection.

So Tuesday night, I gave her a careful three hours. A few rough spots remain, maybe I’ll fix them, maybe I’ll let her wear them proudly.

Whatever I do, I’ll take my time with it.

Lesson #5: Support the little guy (have a soul).

This whole tree adventure reminded me of something I learned in Montreal and still try to live by: Even when it takes more effort, support the little guy.

Most of us grab trees from giant lots and “one-click” all our gifts. Then, we wonder why everything feels hollow.

The joy isn’t in the thing, it’s in the journey to get the thing.

Choose the quirky café over the soulless mermaid. The Mom-and-Pop eatery over the chain with eight clones. The creamery over DQ. The local bookstore over the Amazon impulse.

Amazon and Walmart may be “just business,” sure, but they also hollowed out entire worlds of specialty shops. One-click convenience robbed us of browsing, talking, discovering, going somewhere.

If it matters to you, vote with your dollar and use them feets to move.

It feels good because it is good.

Small businesses actually notice you.

They need you, more than you need another brown box on your doorstep. Paying a bit more is really investing in someone’s livelihood, and in your own sense of soul.

So when I handed over $150 for our Big Bertha, I didn’t bat an eye. Sure, I could’ve haggled. But this guy was running a whole Christmas operation off his own land, giving everyone all the time and attention in the world. You could feel his Christmas spirit.

The least I could do was give some back.

It was my little way of injecting some love back into small business and soul back into America.

...

Nothing ever seems too bad, too hard, or too sad when you’ve got a Christmas tree in the living room… there’s always light and hope in the world. - Nora Roberts

There is something beautiful about this time of year.

Everything feels softer, brighter, lighter.

People open up. They’re kinder, more giving, more grateful.

We slow down. We reflect. We spend real time with the people who matter.

And in the middle of it all sits the Christmas tree.

Warm lights. Fresh pine scent. A bit of wilderness indoors.

Quietly holding whatever meaning we give it.

And when we put heart (and a little elbow grease) into it, even an imperfect tree feels rich with meaning.

Christmas is a natural moment to look back on what did and didn’t serve us this past year. It’s a chance to return to what matters. And what matters, ultimately, is you.

I’m grateful my wife, our little minion, and I trekked out to cut our own tree this year. More than that though, I wanted to share the joy of the process and I hope it helps you rekindle your own.

Because Christmas trees reflect something we’ve been trying to reclaim since childhood: innocence, joy, and faith.

It’s still in there somewhere.

We’re just older now and have to sift through the noise to find the signal. To hear that little “inner voice” again, sometimes you need to do something that feeds your soul.

For me, this year, that was chopping down a Christmas tree. Walking that tree farm and seeing my baby girl in my wife’s arms … that’s what it’s all about.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you and yours!