Welcome to Blogmas 2025, folks! For those new to The Confusing Middle, Blogmas is my annual tradition of posting holiday-themed content every single day from December 1st through Christmas Day. It’s ambitious, it’s exhausting, and by December 15th I usually question all my life choices—but here we are again. This year, I decided to shake things up by asking AI to generate writing prompts for each day because apparently, I enjoy adding layers of complexity to already complicated situations. Today’s AI-generated prompt couldn’t be more straightforward: Share your all-time favorite Christmas movie and explain why it sets the tone for the season.

Now, asking someone to pick their favorite Christmas movie is like asking them to pick their favorite child. You might have an answer, but you’re going to feel guilty about all the ones you didn’t choose. Do I go with the nostalgic laugh-fest of A Christmas Story? The quotable chaos of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? The stop-motion charm of the Rankin/Bass classics that defined my childhood December evenings?

But when push comes to shove—when I really have to pick just one—I keep coming back to Frank Capra’s 1946 masterpiece: It’s a Wonderful Life.

I know, I know. How predictable, right? The guy who writes about pop culture and storytelling picks the movie that’s been dissected in film schools for decades. But hear me out. This isn’t just about critical acclaim or cultural significance. This is about a movie that, year after year, manages to emotionally sucker-punch me in the exact same spots, despite the fact that I know they’re coming. It’s like willingly walking into the same door frame every December and somehow being surprised when it hurts.

The Annual Emotional Rollercoaster I Sign Up For

Every December, without fail, I queue up It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s not just a tradition; it’s a requirement. It sits comfortably in my personal top 100 movies of all time—and considering how many movies I’ve analyzed for my blog over the years, that’s saying something. But what gets me isn’t just the craftsmanship or the performances. It’s the predictable yet somehow still devastating emotional journey I take with George Bailey every single year.

There are two moments—two specific scenes—where I completely lose it. And I’m not talking about getting a little misty-eyed. I’m talking about full-on tears, the kind where you’re grateful you’re watching in the privacy of your own home where no one can judge your emotional fragility.

The first breakdown happens when George finally reaches the end of his rope. After years of watching his dreams slip away, after sacrifice upon sacrifice upon sacrifice, he stands on that bridge ready to jump. The weight of his entire life—all those deferred dreams, all those times he put others first, all those moments where he chose responsibility over desire—it all crashes down at once. And I cry right along with him. Not gentle tears of sympathy, but genuine, painful tears of recognition. Because who among us hasn’t felt that weight? Who hasn’t wondered if all those daily sacrifices, all those small acts of putting others first, actually amount to anything?

George Bailey wanted to see the world. He wanted to build things, important things. He wanted to escape the suffocating confines of Bedford Falls and make his mark on the world. Instead, he inherited a Building and Loan that barely stays afloat, married his high school sweetheart (which, okay, worked out pretty well with Mary), and watched his brother become the war hero while he stayed home with his bum ear. Every major turning point in his life involved choosing someone else’s happiness over his own ambitions.

That scene on the bridge isn’t just about a man having a bad day. It’s about the accumulated weight of a lifetime of compromise, and something about the way Jimmy Stewart plays it—the way his voice breaks, the way his whole body seems to collapse under invisible pressure—it gets me every time. Maybe it’s because we all carry our own invisible weights. Maybe it’s because we all have our own bridges, metaphorical or otherwise, where we’ve stood and wondered if any of it matters.

From Despair to “Every Time a Bell Rings”

But then—and this is the genius of the film—we get the second emotional sucker punch, except this time it’s made of pure joy. After Clarence shows George what Bedford Falls would look like without him (Pottersville is basically Bedford Falls’ evil twin with more neon and significantly worse vibes), George realizes the truth that the film’s been building toward: his life has meaning precisely because of all those sacrifices.

When George bursts back into his house at the end, when the entire town (minus one significant exception we’ll get to) shows up to chip in their hard-earned money to save the Building and Loan and keep George out of prison, I lose it again. But these are different tears—tears of joy, relief, and something that might be hope if you want to get sentimental about it.

The whole scene is perfectly orchestrated chaos. Sam Wainwright wiring money from London. The bank examiner getting into the spirit. And through it all, George’s face transforms from desperation to disbelief to pure, unbridled joy. “A toast! To my big brother George, the richest man in town!”

Gets me. Every. Single. Time.

The Problem of Potter (Or: Why Perfect Movies Aren’t Actually Perfect)

Now, let’s address the eight-thousand-pound elephant in the room, or rather, the wheelchair-bound embodiment of capitalist evil who never gets what’s coming to him. Mr. Henry F. Potter—played with delicious malevolence by Lionel Barrymore—commits actual theft and faces zero consequences. Zero!

This drives me absolutely insane.

Let me paint the picture for those who might have forgotten: Uncle Billy, in a moment of spectacular absent-mindedness that makes you wonder how he functions as an adult, accidentally wraps the Building and Loan’s $8,000 bank deposit in a newspaper and hands it directly to Potter. Potter, upon discovering this windfall, does what any cartoon villain would do—he keeps it, knowing full well it will destroy George Bailey.

When George comes to Potter desperate for help, Potter doesn’t just refuse him. He threatens to have George arrested for embezzlement! The man who literally stole the money threatens the victim with prison! It’s like getting mugged and then having the mugger call the cops on you for disturbing the peace.

And here’s what really burns my biscuit: Potter could have been a half-decent human being in that moment. When George came begging for help, Potter could have “found” the money. He could have handed it over with some sanctimonious lecture about fiscal responsibility and the dangers of trusting absent-minded relatives with large sums of cash. He could have been the hero of his own story while still maintaining his crusty, capitalist exterior. But no. He chooses pure, vindictive evil.

And then… nothing. No comeuppance. No karma. No convenient bolt of lightning. The movie ends with Potter presumably still sitting in his office, stolen money in his vault, while the rest of Bedford Falls celebrates at the Bailey house. Every year I watch, hoping maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time someone will remember that Uncle Billy was at the bank. Maybe this time the bank examiner will ask some pointed questions. Maybe this time Potter’s wheelchair will spontaneously combust.

But no. He gets away with it, and we’re supposed to be okay with that because George learned about the value of his life or whatever. Don’t get me wrong—I love the ending. But would it have killed Capra to add a thirty-second scene where Potter gets hauled off by the cops? Or at least gets tipped out of his wheelchair?

Why This Movie Owns December

Despite my annual rage at Potter’s lack of punishment, It’s a Wonderful Life remains the movie that truly sets the tone for my Christmas season. And it’s not just because it’s a “Christmas movie” in the traditional sense—most of the film doesn’t even take place during Christmas. The holiday setting is almost incidental to the story. You could set George’s crisis in July and the emotional beats would still land.

But that’s exactly why it works as the perfect Christmas film. Because Christmas, despite what Hallmark wants us to believe, isn’t just about perfectly decorated trees and miraculous snow on Christmas Eve. It’s about taking stock. It’s about recognizing what matters. It’s about community showing up for each other when things get dark—and December, let’s be honest, can get pretty dark.

The film captures something essential about the holiday season that goes beyond presents and Santa Claus. It acknowledges that December can be hard. That the pressure of the season, the weight of another year passing, the gap between where we thought we’d be and where we are—all of that can feel overwhelming. George Bailey’s breakdown might happen on Christmas Eve, but it could happen to any of us on any random Tuesday when the weight gets too heavy.

What makes it a Christmas movie isn’t the snow or the decorations or even the timing. It’s the response. It’s the community rushing in when one of their own is drowning. It’s the reminder that our lives touch other lives in ways we never fully grasp. It’s the suggestion—naive though it might be—that people are fundamentally good and will show up when it matters.

The Ripple Effect of Small Choices

What Clarence shows George—and what George shows us—is that life isn’t measured in grand gestures or achieved dreams. It’s measured in ripples. George saved his brother Harry from drowning, and Harry went on to save a transport full of soldiers. George prevented Mr. Gower from poisoning a child, saving both a life and a man’s reputation. George kept the Building and Loan running, giving countless families homes they could actually afford, keeping them out of Potter’s slums.

None of these were the things George wanted to do with his life. He didn’t dream of being a small-town banker making small loans to working families. But those small acts, those daily choices to do the right thing even when it meant sacrificing his own dreams, they mattered. They mattered in ways George couldn’t see until Clarence gave him that terrible gift of perspective.

This is what I carry with me each December after watching the film. Not some Pollyanna belief that everything works out in the end (Potter still has that money, after all), but a reminder that the small stuff counts. That showing up matters. That the life we’re living, even if it’s not the life we planned, has weight and meaning we might not be able to see.

The Annual Reset

There’s something almost ritualistic about watching It’s a Wonderful Life each December. It’s become part of my emotional and spiritual preparation for the end of one year and the beginning of another. Because let’s be real—by December, most of us are George Bailey to some degree. We’re tired. We’ve made it through another year of compromises and challenges. Our own personal Mr. Potters have probably gotten away with something they shouldn’t have. We’re standing on our own bridges, wondering if any of it mattered.

And then Jimmy Stewart reminds us—with the help of a hapless angel and a town full of people who inexplicably trust Uncle Billy with their money—that it does matter. That we matter. That the connections we’ve made, the small kindnesses we’ve offered, the times we chose others over ourselves—they all add up to something bigger than we can see from our limited perspective.

Is it cheesy? Absolutely. Is it dated? In some ways, sure. Does Mr. Potter’s lack of comeuppance still make me want to throw things at my TV? You bet. But does it still work? Does it still hit those emotional beats with the precision of a Swiss watch? Does it still make me cry at the exact same moments even though I can quote the dialogue from memory?

Every. Single. Time.

And that’s why, when December rolls around and the decorations go up and the holiday stress starts building, I know it’s time to visit Bedford Falls again. To watch George Bailey lose everything and gain it all back. To cry at his despair and his joy. To rage at Potter’s escape from justice. And to remember, once again, that despite all evidence to the contrary, it really is a wonderful life.

Even if the villain gets away with grand larceny.

Welcome to Blogmas, everyone. We’ve got twenty-four more days of this. Buckle up.