As published in CLAUDIA

During the Christmas of the pandemic, I was surprised by an unexpected gift from Netflix: a series released in Brazil as Namorado de Natal, which I immediately compared to a kind of Norwegian Bridget Jones. Simple in its premise, gentle in its execution, and original in its emotional delivery, the show is a hidden gem within Netflix’s vast holiday catalogue. And if, amid all the annual “what to watch” lists, you’re still looking for something that genuinely makes you feel hopeful and content, binge-watching all its seasons is one of the best holiday choices you can make.

Yes, there are holiday productions that work like emotional sugar: pleasant, predictable, disposable. But Home for Christmas never aspired to that place. Since its debut in 2019, the series has chosen a riskier — and far more honest — path. Instead of selling love as a reward, it observes love as a process. Instead of promising neatly wrapped endings, it investigates what remains when romantic idealism is no longer enough to sustain real life.

Created as Netflix’s first original series produced in Norway, Home for Christmas was conceived almost as a language experiment within the platform’s international expansion strategy. A short, episodic romantic comedy set during Christmas, led by an ordinary woman, without artificial glamour or quirky traits designed for instant likability. What seemed modest proved remarkably precise: the series built a loyal audience, survived multiple seasons, and became a recurring holiday title — one that never explodes into hype, but endures.

The story centers on Johanne, a single nurse surrounded by a loving yet overly curious family that treats Christmas as an annual emotional evaluation. In the first season, she is still recovering from the end of a relationship, and when she lies to her relatives by saying she has a boyfriend — proof that she is supposedly “fine” — Johanne creates a symbolic deadline for herself: 24 days until Christmas to resolve something that adult life rarely allows to be solved on a schedule. Each episode corresponds to one day of this countdown, and what unfolds is not a traditional romantic quest, but a delicate mapping of contemporary emotional anxiety.

The show’s greatest achievement lies in understanding that Christmas is not merely a backdrop, but a catalyst. It is the time of year when questions multiply, silences grow louder, and comparisons — with siblings, cousins, friends, idealized versions of oneself — become unavoidable. Home for Christmas does not turn this discomfort into an easy joke. On the contrary, it observes with empathy the emotional exhaustion of those trying to live up to expectations that no longer make sense, yet still weigh heavily. There are no grand plot twists designed to force breakups; sometimes love evolves into friendship, or simply ends. Very few romantic series are willing to show this — and in doing so, they often lose touch with what their audience is actually living.

This approach only works because Johanne is portrayed by Ida Elise Broch, an actress who brings rare emotional density to the genre. Trained at the Oslo National Academy of the Arts, Broch built her career in Norwegian productions marked by psychological realism and restraint. As Johanne, she avoids any attempt to make the character “adorable.” What we see instead is a functional, ironic, tired, sometimes defensive woman — someone who has learned how to survive emotionally without necessarily feeling safe.

And yes, the Nordic quality of her performance is unmistakable: silences speak as loudly as dialogue; emotions never overflow, they accumulate. Johanne is not a romantic heroine awaiting redemption. She is someone trying not to harden.

The first season (initially released in two parts) structures its arc around the illusion that love depends solely on choice and timing. The dates — many of them frustrating — reveal less about the people Johanne meets and more about her own emotional state. When Jonas emerges as a concrete possibility, the conflict lies not in his imperfections, but in Johanne’s difficulty accepting that adult love rarely arrives as an epiphany. It is possible, imperfect, everyday — and precisely for that reason, it requires more courage than idealized romance.

The second season, released in 2025 just in time for yet another Christmas in need of originality, marks a decisive tonal shift. When we meet Johanne again, she is now 35, once more single at the end of the year. She is not in love, but she is also not paralyzed or heartbroken as she was before. This time, she keeps busy. She works more. She takes on a leadership role. She helps her siblings. She cares for her father, whose loneliness becomes increasingly visible. She fills her life to avoid silence.

Dating continues, but it has lost its aura of promise. What once felt like anticipation now feels like repetition. And it is precisely here that Home for Christmas definitively distances itself from traditional romantic comedies. The central question is no longer “Who will I spend Christmas with?”, but something far more uncomfortable: Do I still believe love can be light? Or merely possible? Or simply tolerable?

The second season speaks of emotional grief, affective exhaustion, and the quiet danger of mistaking self-protection for isolation. Johanne is not cynical — she is tired. And this fatigue, so recognizable to adult women, is never framed as a character flaw. It is treated as a consequence.

In terms of Netflix performance, the series mirrors this same logic. Home for Christmas was never a loud global phenomenon, but it appeared in weekly rankings across several European countries at launch, showed strong audience retention, and established itself as a recurring catalogue title, revisited every December. Its true impact lies less in public numbers than in its ripple effects: it inspired official remakes, expanded the space for adult romantic narratives on the platform, and helped dismantle the idea that Nordic series must necessarily be dark or crime-driven.

In the end, Home for Christmas endures because it understands something essential: Christmas does not create emotions — it simply removes distractions. It reveals what has been postponed throughout the year. Johanne does not learn how to love better; she learns to accept that loving, after a certain age, involves risk, repetition, and the courage not to close oneself off.

Perhaps that is why the series is so lasting. It does not promise perfect endings. It offers something rarer: recognition. And for those who have already outgrown easy solutions, that is what makes a story truly romantic. Recommending this series is my holiday gift to you — I’m certain you’ll agree.