I never expected a Christmas tree to mark a turning point in my life. But if you’d asked me to pinpoint the moment I truly felt like an adult—when I stepped into my own space, set my own traditions, and created something that felt real—it wouldn’t be a graduation or job promotion. It would be the day I assembled my first National Tree Company Dunhill Fir.
Growing up, Christmas was always my mother’s territory. She had a knack for transforming our living room into a holiday wonderland—twinkling lights, cinnamon candles, a tree so well-decorated it could be in a magazine. I was the designated “light untangler” and cookie taste-tester, but the weight of the holiday never fell on me. I loved the ritual of it, but it felt like something I merely participated in, not something I owned.
Fast forward a few years, and there I was in my first apartment in Toronto. The rent ate most of my budget, and my workdays blurred into evenings. December arrived in a rush of cold wind and long hours, and for a while, I didn’t think I’d even bother with a tree. But then one weekend, something shifted. I missed the smell of pine—even if artificial. I missed the feeling of sitting quietly by a glowing tree after a long day. Most of all, I wanted to create that warmth for myself, not just wait to experience it at someone else’s house.
That’s when I found National Tree Company Canada. A friend recommended the brand when I confessed I had no idea where to begin—just that I didn’t want something flimsy or plastic-looking. I scrolled through a sea of options and landed on the Dunhill Fir. Full, classic, with just enough realism to evoke nostalgia without the mess of falling needles. I ordered it with equal parts excitement and hesitation.
When the box arrived, I took a deep breath. The setup wasn’t intimidating at all. The branches fell into place almost naturally, and within an hour, I had something beautiful standing in my living room—something that felt far more “home” than I expected. I added a string of warm white lights, a few mismatched ornaments I’d collected over the years, and even a crocheted star my grandma made before she passed. It wasn’t the biggest or the brightest tree, but it was mine.
That tree became more than decor. It was a symbol—a small, pine-scented declaration that I was building something for myself. That I could carry forward pieces of my childhood but reshape them into something new. I hosted my first “grown-up” holiday gathering around that tree: two friends, three mugs of mulled wine, and a playlist that alternated between jazz and cheesy pop ballads. We sat on the floor and exchanged small gifts, laughing until late. No fancy dinner. No stress. Just warmth.
What surprised me most about the National Tree Company product wasn’t just its quality—though that’s undeniable. The branches are sturdy, the shape generous, and the overall look feels more woodland than warehouse. But it’s the feeling that came with it. The quiet pride of unpacking it year after year. The comfort of knowing that even when life changes, there are rituals we can reclaim and redefine.
Now, each December, I pull the Dunhill Fir from storage and begin again. It’s my favorite tradition—not because it’s grand, but because it’s mine. It marks the start of a season that feels like coming home, even when I’m far from where I started.
So no, it wasn’t a diploma, a title, or a key to a new car that marked my “growing up” moment. It was a tree. One I chose, built, and now decorate every year with a little more intention. A tree that reminds me that adulthood isn’t about perfection or performance—it’s about presence, and choosing joy even when it has to come in the form of a pre-lit, carefully crafted evergreen.