Unlike the rush of holiday sales, glistening decorations, or palette-pleasing peppermint mocha lattes that stimulate our senses before Christmas, Advent offers something different. It invites us into a quiet waiting, a deliberate slowing down of our minds and hearts to prepare for something far greater.

Advent is not about last-minute shopping or perfectly curated Christmas trees. It's a season rich in tradition, steeped in meaning, and rooted in a sacred anticipation that has shaped the Christian story for centuries.

What Advent Is and What It Isn’t

The word Advent comes from the Latin adventus, meaning “coming” or “arrival.” In the Church, Advent refers to the four weeks leading up to Christmas, a distinct liturgical season that begins with the First Sunday of Advent and ends on Christmas Eve.

In many ways, Advent mirrors aspects of Lent, another preparatory season in the Church year. Both use the color violet in liturgy, both invite reflection, and both cultivate a posture of watchful waiting. But where Lent prepares us for the suffering, death, and resurrection of Christ, Advent prepares us for His coming, not just in history, but in our hearts and ultimately at the end of time.

But Advent is not a mini Lent, nor is it merely a countdown to Christmas morning gifts and festivities. It's a spiritual journey, one that calls for intention, attentiveness, and a kind of hopeful patience.

A Season of Three Comings

One of the most beautiful aspects of Advent is how it orients us toward three comings of Christ:

His first coming in Bethlehem, the humble entrance of Jesus into our world as a baby.

His ongoing presence now, found in Scripture, in the sacraments, and in the love shared among people.

His promised coming at the end of time, when Christ will return in glory.

These layers of “coming” shift Advent from being merely nostalgic or ritualistic to something deeply eschatological, a season concerned with our ultimate hope and destiny in Christ.

Why Preparation Matters

At first glance, counting down to Christmas might seem childlike. And with the rise of novelty Advent calendars for both adults and kids, it's easy to dilute the true meaning. It begs the question: if not for fun, why prepare? Why wait?

Because preparation changes us. Just as Lent calls us to examine our hearts before Easter and to renounce what hinders love, Advent calls us to lean into hope and to make room for light in places where we have grown numb, distracted, or worn down by the world’s noise.

Advent calls us to lean into hope and to make room for light in places where we have grown numb, distracted, or worn down by the world’s noise.

It's human to get swept up by busyness: parties to attend, presents to buy, meals to prep, expectations to meet. But Advent asks us to step aside from that for a moment, to breathe, reflect, and place our focus not on what we must do but on who is coming.

The Advent Wreath: A Symbol of Hope and Light

One of the most cherished symbols of Advent is the Advent wreath, a circle of evergreen with candles representing each week of the season.

The circle itself is unbroken, reminding us of God’s eternal love. The evergreens symbolize life that transcends winter’s barrenness. And each Sunday, one more candle is lit, bringing more light into our growing darkness. Traditionally, three candles are violet, emphasizing repentance and preparation, and one is rose, signifying joy in the midpoint of Advent.

This gradual illumination captures the heart of Advent: hope increases as we draw closer to the light who has already come and who yet will come again.

Advent as Personal Transformation

What does this look like in daily life? In the same way stepping back from noise during Lent can make room for something deeper, prayer, Scripture, and presence, Advent invites a similar inward shift.

Instead of immediately seeking distraction, we might begin our days with Scripture that points toward Christ’s coming. Instead of filling every silence with doomscrolling or a playlist, we might sit with our own thoughts and let them turn toward gratitude. Instead of using social media for comparison or argument, we might use it for connection, encouragement, and sharing the hope of the season.

Advent is not about perfection. It's about presence. It's about noticing where our hearts are busy with things that don't really matter and inviting Christ to lovingly realign our priorities.

Joy in Expectation

This time is not intended to be somber but rather for solemn reflection. Advent certainly includes moments of joy, most notably on the Third Sunday of Advent, known as Gaudete Sunday. On this day, the liturgical color turns rose, a reminder that joy is already blooming in our waiting.

But joy in Advent is not quite the same as holiday cheer. It doesn't depend on stress-free schedules or perfect gifts. It's a steadier joy, the kind that comes from knowing someone is coming who changes everything.

Perhaps the miracle of Advent is how it works uniquely to form every heart, teaching all of us to become steadier, gentler, more faithful, and more ready to love one another as Christ loves. Advent prepares the soul for God’s arrival in ways both universal and deeply personal.

For women, it can shape the heart into a place of tenderness, devotion, and submission, a heart capable of becoming a haven for others through patience, hope, and steadfast love. For men, Advent can awaken the virtues of protection, courage, humility, and sacrificial responsibility, forming them into leaders who love through action, who carry their strength with reverence, and whose steadiness reflects the faithfulness of Christ.

Living Advent Beyond the Calendar

In a culture that revels in skipping to the finish line, Advent stands as a countercultural call to slow down. It does not rush us to the nativity scene. Instead, it walks with us through the preparation.

And in that preparation, we are reminded of something profound: Christmas is not the end of the story. It's the beginning, the moment when God chose to enter history in flesh and make Himself known among us. His presence continues to unfold in our lives now through mercy extended, forgiveness received, and love shared. And one day, on a day we do not know, He will come again.

As Advent progresses each year, there is a chance for renewal, not just of the holiday traditions we love, but of the heart itself. We can reclaim the season from hyper-consumerism and discover instead a rhythm of hope, humility, and joyful expectation.

In this season of Advent, may you find a stillness that surprises you, a hope that anchors you, and a joy that prepares you not just for Christmas, but for the promise of Christ’s coming in your life and in the world.

Remember Humphrey Bogart lighting a cigarette in Casablanca? The war-hardened businessman with a good but guarded heart? Or Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, whose everyday decency made him a heartthrob. Or Cary Grant, the gold standard of the elegant grown man. Even Mr. Darcy, despite his social awkwardness, was dignified.

These were men who dressed well, worked hard, and didn't need to "grow up," and these were the men women wanted. But for some reason, that kind of man has disappeared from our screens. In the last few decades, if a male character in a movie is competent, well-dressed, and financially secure, chances are he’s not the hero. He’s much more likely to be the antagonist, or at the very least, he's an obstacle to true love, standing in the way of the heroine's preferred romance.

And the guy who does get the girl? He can be anything except mature and responsible: a broke poet with commitment issues, a boyish drifter with no plan for the future, or an eccentric loner obsessed with escaping convention at all costs. Which begs the question...in real life, do men like this typically sustain happy relationships and make great husbands and fathers? Not usually. But in Hollywood, they’re the ones “following their hearts, ” and that makes them the prize.

This man-child-turned-hero fantasy was brought to you not by data, nor by women’s actual dating preferences, but by decades of subtle, persistent cinematic propaganda. If you don't believe me, just ask any woman if she wants to go out with a hot guy with clear prospects or a hot guy with none.

Nice (And Rich) Guys Finish Last?

One of the most recent and telling examples of this trope is The Materialists, where a wealthy, successful woman leaves a man with seemingly no flaws for a broke actor in his late thirties who’s still “finding himself.” The rich fiancé adores her, clearly wants to build a life with her, and seems like a stable, generous man, but in typical fashion, she ends up with the struggling guy despite all the red flags. We don't get to see much of their happily-ever-after, but it’s not hard to imagine the resentment, the financial stress at play.

Maybe some of this storytelling might just reflect the lived reality of the people writing it? Most screenwriters and showrunners don’t live in quiet suburbs or small towns, and they’re not surrounded by high-character, high-earning men who go hunting on the weekends or hang out with their families. They’re in LA or New York, cities where being broke is practically a rite of passage on the road to creative success, so the struggling actor, the out-of-work writer, the bitter barista-slash-playwright, these are the men they know.

It’s also not hard to imagine that behind some of these screenplays is a guy who lost his "Stacy" to a "Chad" back in high school. The cheerleader dated the quarterback, not the kid who loved Clerks and had a short film in the works. Now, like a male version of Taylor Swift’s You Belong With Me, he’s finally rewriting the ending in his favor. In his version, the cool girl doesn’t marry the stable guy with the good job. Instead, she sees through him, finds the tortured artist, and never looks back.

It probably makes for an emotionally satisfying arc if you’re the guy writing it. But as a model for romance? Women beware.

The Notebook Effect: Love as "Rebellion"

The Notebook is one of the most infamous examples. Yes, it’s beloved. Yes, Ryan Gosling is charming, and his chemistry with Rachel McAdams set the world on fire. But let’s step back and assess it with a little more clarity.

Allie's actual fiancé, Lon, played by the equally charming and handsome James Marsden, is a virtuous, successful, respectful man. He's smart and fun. He takes her to war bond events. He wants to marry her. He’s literally the kind of man most women want: supportive, kind, reliable, fit, and good-looking to boot. He’s the man you eagerly marry in real life but never in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

But the story tells us he’s the wrong choice because he’s...rich? Stable? Uses hair gel? Allie’s so-called “growth” requires her to reject the dependable man in favor of a guy who disappears for years. Granted, Noah's big romantic gesture of building a house is a major plot point that's supposed to prove his devotion to her, but he doesn’t even reach out to Allie after building it! He just broods and hopes she’ll come around.

Noah is definitely endearing at times, but he's also emotionally volatile and directionless for most of the story. If Allie’s parents hadn’t objected to him screaming at their daughter in the middle of town, we’d seriously question their judgment. And yet, stories like these have conditioned young women to believe "real love" is defined by drama, chaos, and a man we can't fully depend on.

The Loser Gets the Girl?

It’s not just The Notebook. It’s Sweet Home Alabama, where Reese Witherspoon dumps her responsible, Kennedy-esque fiancé (played by Patrick Dempsey in his prime, for crying out loud!) for her small-town ex who doesn’t do much besides drink beer and blow glass. Dempsey’s character is a successful New Yorker from a political family who supports Melanie’s ambitions and treats her with genuine affection. In any sane woman's mind, he’s the obvious prize. But in this story, he’s cast as the obstacle, the symbol of the “fake” life she must shed to rediscover her “true” self.

The list goes on. In Knocked Up, Katherine Heigl’s buttoned-up TV anchor ends up with Seth Rogen’s unemployed stoner character after one one-night stand and one slightly responsible act. He reads What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and suddenly he’s ready for fatherhood? Garden State, High Fidelity, 500 Days of Summer, and most recently The Materialists all follow the same blueprint: the male lead is directionless, emotionally underdeveloped, and allergic to commitment.

He stumbles his way through romantic dysfunction, but we’re meant to root for him because he’s creative, or funny, or brooding. These qualities are charming in small doses, but when they’re framed as more romantic than maturity, the heroines basically become their emotional rehab centers, tasked with validating these men, taming them, and teaching them to grow up. And then the men rarely become significantly better versions of themselves. They just declare their love, and the curtain falls into a feel-good happy-ever-after.

A Rare Exception: The Break-Up

Thankfully, every now and then, the trope gets subverted. In The Break-Up, Jennifer Aniston’s character ends a long-term relationship with Vince Vaughn’s man-child not because she stops loving him, but because he refuses to grow. She gives him every chance, but he takes none of them.

When she walks away, it’s painful but honest. Her growth isn’t about "following her heart" into chaos. It's making a decision that will ultimately lead to a happier, healthier life, and it’s one of the few times Hollywood acknowledges that love without male leadership and maturity is rarely sustainable.

Why Does Hollywood Keep Writing These Men?

This trope, the immature-but-vulnerable man-child as romantic ideal, didn’t emerge in a vacuum. It’s the cinematic cousin of a broader cultural project that began in the wake of second-wave feminism and accelerated in the 90s and early 2000s. As pop culture set out to deconstruct traditional masculinity, it didn’t just offer alternative expressions of manhood. It began to pathologize adult male competence altogether.

In film after film, the dependable man, the one with a job, a plan, a duty, is reframed as boring or missing something crucial within the relationship. Meanwhile, the emotionally avoidant man, the broke artist, the sarcastic commitment-phobe, is repackaged as free, real, creative, and "authentic." He’s the one who gets the love story because he's the one who makes her feel "alive," even if he's objectively bringing her down.

Hollywood’s allergy to maturity is also a symptom of a deeper narrative confusion: we no longer know how to write virtuous characters without making them insufferable. In bygone eras, when stories operated within a clearer moral framework, writers could craft noble protagonists who still had room to struggle with pride, fear, duty, and desire without losing their dignity or narrative appeal. But today, if a character is too moral, the default assumption is that they must be repressed, secretly tyrannical, or just plain dull.

The Scenes They Always Skip

Of course, it’s difficult to tell great stories without bad decisions. Good life choices don't generate nearly as many exciting plot points, so it's harder to write a clear transformation arc for a man who’s kind to his parents, shows up for work on time, and manages his emotions. But even if postmodern writers can't figure out how to craft mature masculine protagonists again, they can at least allow viewers to see the immature ones truly grow.

That’s what’s missing in the man-child trope. The curtain drops before any real consequences arrive, and we never see how the broody bad boys handle financial stress, family obligations, or long-term commitment. His “growth” is often symbolic in the form of a single declaration of love, a single apology, or a slightly improved situation, and that’s enough to earn him the woman’s devotion.

But in real life, we know how this plays out. Passion doesn’t pay bills, and cinematic kisses in the rain don't translate to a lifetime of harmony and happiness.

What Women Really Want

In the real world, women still prefer grown men. Across studies, financial stability and emotional maturity remain top priorities for long-term relationships. Women married to dependable, responsible men report higher satisfaction. So why does pop culture keep telling us we should want the opposite?

Because cultural messaging matters, and the romanticized man-child is a convenient vehicle for a society that increasingly disincentivizes traditional masculinity and delays adulthood. If grown men are framed as controlling or lifeless, no one has to listen to them, and no one has to grow up.

And this doesn’t just mislead women, it stunts men, too. It tells them they’ll be rewarded not for becoming strong or disciplined, but for being broken in the right ways. It also teaches both parties that passion is more valuable than consistency, but leaves out the fact that relationships can rarely withstand sustained chaos, and love is much more enjoyable when it's between two adults with the character and competence to weather life together.

And perhaps the most persistent lie of all in these films is that women must choose between chemistry and stability, as if passion and security are somehow mutually exclusive. In reality, the best relationships always offer both. Isn't the true romantic ideal that you get to make out with a man who makes you laugh every day, and you know he's not going to disappear to go "find himself" or gamble your savings away? Why do so many Hollywood heroines have to choose one or the other?

Just for fun, let’s imagine an alternative cinematic ending: what if Allie had stayed with Lon? Is it really so implausible that she could have built a happy life with him, filled with connection and sexual chemistry? She was clearly attracted to him, and he supported her, made her laugh, and treated her well. The ingredients for passion were already there, they supposedly just weren't "real" enough.

The same narrative plays out in Sweet Home Alabama. Patrick Dempsey’s character is written off not because he mistreats Melanie in any way, but because he represents wealth, status, and power. In both films, the mature man becomes the placeholder for a “false life” that the heroine must reject to follow her “heart,” which is Hollywood code for whichever man offers the least security.

These stories would have us believe that chaos equals romance, but in real life, it usually equals consequences. That's why it's crucial that women not confuse dramatic storytelling with good life advice and reject the forged link between love and dysfunction.

Hollywood doesn't want you to know that mature men are the most desirable, and that passion isn’t a permanent state of being. The chemical rush of early romance fades in every long-term relationship, including ones built on rain-soaked kisses. Sexual chemistry is thrilling, but it’s not the only thing that fuels a lifetime of love.

I say we bring back the mature, competent, grounded man who pays the bills, listens, leads, and doesn't need to act like a boy to prove his passion. Who you choose to love and build a life with is one of the most defining decisions you’ll ever make, so don’t choose the one who brings storms into your life.

Choose the one who knows how to keep you steady through them.

Think Red-era Taylor Swift, One Direction posters, twee fashion, Coachella wristbands, the height of Tumblr. If you lived your twenties in that era, Gen Z envies you more than they'd ever say out loud. There is a thoughtful tweet responding to a video romanticizing 2012 that understands the yearning for this time period.

"I get why this is a thing bc the vibe during this time was absolutely unmatched, miss it all the time,” wrote @RRR0BYN on X. “Cafes were still cozy, nightlife was fun and mostly wholesome, going to the mall to hang out and shop with ur friends was a great time, social media and dating apps hadn't taken over human interactions, I hadn't even owned my first smart phone yet in 2012. We were unselfconscious and free in a way gen z has never been.”

She continued, “This was the last moment in time anyone can remember before everything in life started to be recorded and uploaded as 'content.' It was the last time we were just people without constantly curating a digital avatar."

She's describing what a lot of millennials feel, and it’s perhaps the reason why so many of them are stuck in nostalgia. There was a short window where life felt modern and exciting, recognizably "online,” yet not completely swallowed by the content machine. Above all, the content was authentic, whereas today most influencers are driven by capital rather than their own instincts or genuine interests.

That millennial window of messy, low-stakes, shared-popculture adulthood is exactly what Gen Z is trying to climb into. 

Anemoia: Missing a Time You Never Had

There's a word for this: anemoia: nostalgia for a time or place you never actually knew. Older zoomers and Gen Alpha didn't grow up going to the mall with a $15 Claire's budget and an iPhone 10 in the bottom of a cross-body bag. Unlike most millennials, they lived life through their screens. Most of us are old enough to remember a time without doomscrolling. Gen Alpha and the younger Gen Z crowd do not – that’s why they borrow the millennial era. They can only romanticize and yearn for it because they will never experience a life that isn’t dominated by technology.

I'm not saying millennials weren't online. That's simply not true – they scrolled through grainy Tumblr dashboards and early Instagram grids like everyone else. The difference is that they weren't swiping through 1-minute videos. They lingered in spaces without an algorithm rushing them to the next thing. Even the way we make content is different now. Millennials turned to social media to document life. Gen Z and Gen Alpha live inside it, and as a result, they have learned to be performative. Now, millennials are made fun of for being cringe and quirky because Gen Z and Gen Alpha are too afraid of being perceived as anything less than normal. They have imprisoned their true personalities, showing only what is digestible for TikTok’s algorithm.

Millennials posted blurry, badly lit party photos and thought nothing of it. It was just sharing; Instagram was an afterthought. You went to the party and showed how much fun you had. Today, we put pressure on our own social media feeds. The younger crowd shows up to parties or events with phones already out, already thinking about the post. Even if they're physically at the party, they're not really there. They're editing in their heads, drafting captions, anticipating the likes. They are too self-conscious to let loose at all, knowing any moment could be recorded.

YouTubers back then were living imperfect, often miserable lives, posting updates because they felt like it. It makes sense why the post-millennial crowd wishes their teens or twenties had felt that free. They wish they had spent more time in the real world and experienced what life had to offer, rather than experiencing it through social media.  

They wish they had spent more time in the real world and experienced what life had to offer, rather than experiencing it through social media.

They entered adolescence at the exact moment social media turned from a place to hang out into an industry. Content creation stopped being a niche hobby and became the default way to exist online. Every vacation, every outfit, every friendship could be edited into a vlog, a GRWM, a Day in My Life. Even casual selfies now pass through beauty filters, retouching, the quiet calculation of what will perform. This is the water Gen Z was born into. Millennials got a different deal. One last window where you could still be young and delusional enough to believe it would all work out.

Chelsea Fagan, a millennial writer who went viral talking about this era, called the early 2010s "the last era of sweet delusion." She describes moving to Brooklyn, buying oat milk lattes, dodging fixie bikes on the way to an open-plan office, genuinely believing she had "made it" writing listicles for a living. Objectively, things were rough. The global financial crisis had just happened, wages were flat. Student debt was climbing. Despite these hardships, there was still this vague belief that if you worked hard, networked, stayed late, moved to a city, said yes to everything, something would eventually click.

Economists who spoke to Newsweek about this period noted that even though the recovery was slow, the outlook for young workers in the early 2010s still felt more optimistic than it does now. Tech was expanding, and startups were hiring. Annoying unpaid internships were everywhere, but at least there was the illusion of a ladder.

However, Gen Z's college years collided with COVID-19 lockdowns. Many were isolated. Their first “big girl jobs” were remote, and they didn’t get fun office friendships or happy hours. Now, recent graduates are met with job listings demanding five years of experience for entry-level pay, and adults telling them that everything from the climate to democracy is hanging by a thread. The news, like a spell, repeats to them that they will never be able to afford a home. So when they look back at the 2010s, they’re staring at a version of young adulthood that still assumed the future would, on balance, improve.

So why do they keep roasting the "millennial cringe" if they secretly want the millennial life script? Part of it is how internet culture works. Gen Z uses irony as a shield. It's easier to make a joke about chevron prints and “Live, Laugh, Love” decor than to admit you're terrified about your own future, and a little jealous of anyone who ever believed the world was getting better.

Mocking millennials also draws a line that says: We are not you. We’re younger than you. We will not stay in offices we hate. We are self-aware and not cringe. But the content they create gives them away. They buy digital cameras or flip-phones to imitate the badly lit party photos millennials used to upload to Facebook. They’re demanding that Hollister bring back their babydoll tees and Henley tops. They share clips from Gilmore Girls and Smallville, listen to Emo music, and borrow the aesthetics of the subcultures from that time.

Gen Z or Gen Alpha don't want their adult lives as they exist today. They want the millennials’ early twenties, frozen in amber, before the insane political divide, before Covid, before every conversation felt like it could devolve into apocalypse discourse.

What the Romanticizing Is Really Saying

What is Gen Z and Gen Alpha really saying? I can speak for them, I think:

• I want a life that's allowed to be lived, not just posted. Why can’t I just be? Why does everyone tell me to share every aspect of my life?

• I want physical places to go that aren't outrageously expensive or constantly policed. $10 vodka tonic waters have been keeping me away from the bar. Maybe that’s a good thing – but I also want to have fun sometimes. And why does it feel so awkward at clubs? No one is dancing.

• I want friendships that form without an algorithm ranking everyone's faces and opinions.  Why do I know when my friends hang out without me before they even tell me? Why does Instagram decide who my “close friends” are? Why does it feel like I have to perform the friendship online for it to count?

• I want to feel some baseline optimism about the future instead of a permanent crisis. Half the left tells me to lean in and girlboss. The other half tells me the planet is dying and nothing will ever get better. The right tells me to stay home and have babies. In this economy? Trust me, if most women could stay at home and not work, they would.

Where Do We Go From Here?

There's no rewinding to 2012. What can change is how seriously we take what this nostalgia is trying to say. Older millennials can stop getting defensive when Gen Z makes fun of their Hogwarts houses and side parts and maybe admit that something precious slipped through their fingers: the ability to grow up without broadcasting everything for the world to see.

Parents can hold the line a little longer on phones and social media for their kids, knowing that an offline childhood isn't deprivation. They can put more of a focus on living in the real-world and take them out more. Young people can keep experimenting with flip phones on weekends and digital cameras. Maybe they can challenge their friend group to exist mostly offline, or find hobbies to love. Perhaps third spaces will make a huge comeback, and we all can meet up at the roller rinks and malls again.

Gen Z makes fun of millennial cringe because cringe is an easier target than despair. Underneath the jokes is a serious question: Why did you get a shot at unselfconscious living and we didn't? Worse, is that millennials miss what they had. Gen Z and Gen Alpha miss what they never got to have.

The least older generations can do is stop laughing long enough to answer honestly – and help them build something better than a recycled aesthetic from 2012.