Her Christmas Sorted is out. £17, yours every year.
For the woman who does all of Christmas and gets none of the credit

You've been running Christmas on your own for years. Nobody noticed. Let's fix that.

Her Christmas Sorted takes the whole thing out of your head. The people, the money, the presents, the dinner, the January you'll need afterwards. It puts it on your phone where you can actually see it. And it gives you permission to drop every single thing you only do because you think you're supposed to.

Get Her Christmas Sorted, £17

One payment. Yours every year. Not a course. No homework.

72
days to Christmas
00hrs00min00sec
And you're already carrying all of it.

I'm going to say the thing you're not allowed to say in December.

I dread Christmas.

Not the day. The day is fine. The day is four hours of paper and gravy and someone falling asleep in a chair.

I dread the three months before it. I dread October, when it starts, quietly, the way a toothache starts, and I realise I'm already carrying it. I dread November, when I'm wading through mud with a smile on, remembering everything for everyone, while the rest of the house carries on as if December just happens. Like it's weather.

It isn't weather. It's me.

I'm the one who knows what the kids actually want and what they said they wanted and the difference. Who knows the grotto books up by half term. Who knows Nana can't have gluten and your brother won't eat sprouts and the big shop needs ordering before the slots go. Who knows what's been bought, what's been wrapped, what's still on its way, what's hidden where. All of it. In my head. Nowhere else.

Here's the night it broke.

Some time in December. I don't remember the date, which tells you everything. Dark by four. Kids in bed. Everyone else in bed, actually, because there was nothing they needed to be up for.

I was on the floor with a roll of wrapping paper that ran out halfway round a box. I couldn't remember which presents I'd already done. I couldn't remember if I'd ordered the thing for my mam. I was going through the list in my head for the fourth time that day because there was no list anywhere else.

And I looked round that room. The bags, the tape, the half-wrapped box, the quiet house. And I thought: who am I doing this for?

Not who am I doing this for like the greetings card. Who am I doing this for. Because nobody had asked me to. Nobody was helping me. And nobody would know, on the day, that any of it had been hard.

They'd just see Christmas. Done. Like it does itself.

I sat there and I was so tired, and so flat, and so completely on my own with it, that I did something I'd never done.

I stopped. I put the tape down. And I decided that next year I was going to run this like a job, because it is one, and I was going to build the thing I'd needed for twenty years.

A place for all of it to live that wasn't my head.

That's Her Christmas Sorted. I built it for me. Then I realised I'd built it for you.

The bit nobody says

It's a job. An unpaid one. And somebody else gets the glory.

You know the line. Someone says it on the day, leaning back with a glass, surveying the carnage they didn't make.

"Worth it though, isn't it? To see their little faces."

I love my kids. I would walk into traffic for them. They are also, a lot of the time, little monsters. Their little faces were lit up for roughly eleven minutes before one of them cried over a charger and the other asked what was for tea.

And nobody says worth it to the woman who made it happen. They say it to the room. About the kids. Past her.

Here's what she actually got for three months of work: a kitchen full of washing up, a credit card bill in January, and a man on the sofa saying "we did alright this year, didn't we?"

We.

It's the only job in the country where the better you do it, the less anyone thinks you did. Pull it off and it looks like magic. Drop one ball and you'll hear about it till Easter.

And here's the part I was most ashamed of, for years.

I was glad when it was over. The second of January, tree down, house mine again, nobody asking me what we're doing. Relief. Real, physical relief. I thought that made me a cold woman and a bad mother and the only person in the country who felt it.

I'm not. You're not. There are thousands of us lying awake in November feeling exactly this, and every one of us thinks she's the only one.

It's not you. It's the job.

You're not bad at Christmas. You're doing it with no system and no staff.

Look at what you're actually running. All of it inside your own head. No list, no handover, no one else who knows where anything is. Plus the forty-seven other things also happening in your life, because the rest of the year doesn't stop just because it's December.

In any other job that would be a department. You've been doing it alone, for free, at night, and then wondering why you feel like you're wading through mud.

Of course you're drowning. The miracle is you've kept everyone believing in the magic this long.

And while you've been drowning, you've been measuring yourself against a woman on Instagram with a stylist, a filter, and a husband who did the wrapping. Keeping up with the Joneses used to mean the people next door. Now it's ten thousand strangers with a ring light and a brand deal.

The problem was never you. The problem is that the whole thing lives in your head and nowhere else. So it can't be shared, it can't be seen, and it can't be put down.

Job description

Head of Christmas
  • Logistics
  • Procurement
  • Budget control
  • Catering for fourteen
  • Three dietary requirements
  • Event management
  • Gift curation
  • Tradition maintenance
  • Child psychology
  • Grandparent diplomacy
  • Postal deadlines
  • Emotional labour
  • HoursOctober to January. Evenings and nights.
  • SalaryNone.
  • TeamYou.
  • HandoverNone. Nobody else knows where anything is.
  • ReviewOnly if something goes wrong.
  • CreditGoes to the man on the sofa.
Permission

The elf can get
in the bin.

I'm going to say something controversial.

You don't have to do it.

You don't have to do any of it.

You don't have to do one single thing that doesn't actually matter to you.

KFC and Bisto on Christmas Day? Fine. Presents in a bag, no paper? Fine. Telling your mother-in-law you're not hosting this year? More than fine. There's a tab for it.

Her Christmas Sorted is not a list of things you must do. It's a place to put the things you want to do, and quietly drop everything you've been doing out of guilt, obligation, or because someone online made it look easy.

Yes, the elf's in there. I built him a section. I also built you a way to skip it. Every tab is optional. Use the four you need, ignore the rest, nobody's checking.

This is Christmas done entirely, unapologetically, your way. The tool just makes sure nothing falls through the cracks while you do it.

Do it your way, £17
What's in it

Her Christmas Sorted. This is what's actually in it.

It lives on your phone like an app. Open it and you see exactly where you are: days to go, presents sorted, budget used, what's coming up, what's on its way. One screen. The whole thing. Out of your head.

Then it does what nobody does. It lays Christmas out by month. Because it is four months, and pretending it's one is how you end up on the floor with no wrapping paper.

72Days
58%Gifts
41%Budget

The front screen. Days to go, gifts sorted, budget used, what's coming up, what's on its way. You open it, you know where you are, you put your phone down. That's the whole point.

October
Plan.

Get it out of your head. Your people. Your budget, a number you chose, not one you find out about in January. Who's hosting, who's staying, where everyone's sleeping. Every booking that sells out. Everything that's been living rent-free in your skull since August gets a proper home.

November
Do.

Buy it, log it, wrap it. A gift tracker for every person: what, how much, bought, wrapped. Progress rings that actually move. Parcels, cards, overseas posting dates, stocking fillers, the nativity costume you will absolutely forget otherwise, the drinks cupboard, the teacher's present, the elf if you want him. The quiet satisfaction of watching it get done.

December
Enjoy.

One lovely thing a day, because if you don't plan it, it doesn't happen. The gingerbread house. The hot chocolate in the car. The film that's yours, not theirs. Christmas dinner planned to the minute, what goes in when, who's coming, who's bringing what, so you're not doing maths over a hot oven. Permission to enjoy the month you spent two months preparing for.

January
Rest.

This is the bit I'm proudest of. January is part of Christmas. The crash, the flat, the empty, the broke. It's real, it's allowed, and I've planned for it. Decorations down on your terms. The house reset: deep clean, candles, clear the fridge, make it yours again. A quiet weekend protected. Something booked that's just for you. And a little log: what you spent, how it felt, what you're never doing again, and a note from the woman who just pulled it off. Again.

You know the feeling when you've just bought new stationery? When you finally sort the drawer that's been bothering you for a year, and you open it twice just to look at it?

That. Applied to Christmas. That's the secret weapon. Not more effort. Less noise.

The money

Organised is cheaper. Panic is expensive.

Every December you've ever regretted was paid for in the last ten days of it.

The present you bought twice because you forgot you'd bought it. The next-day delivery because you left it late. The thing you grabbed at full price on the 22nd that was £9 in October. The order that needed to go in by early November to arrive from the other side of the world, and didn't, so you paid three times as much for something worse from the retail park.

None of that is you being bad with money. It's what happens when the list lives in your head and the deadline lives on a calendar you're too tired to look at.

Her Christmas Sorted puts the number at the top of the screen from day one: what you've got, what you've spent, what's left. The posting dates and order-by dates sit right there in November, where you'll actually see them. Every present is logged the moment you buy it, so you never buy it again.

You'll spend less. Not because you're being tight. Because for once you'll be able to see what you're doing.

Last year, by accident
Present bought twice£24.99
Next-day delivery, 21 Dec£9.95
Full price, 22 Dec (was £9 in Oct)£31.00
Retail park replacement for the late order£38.00
Panic candle for someone forgotten£22.00
Extra supermarket run, nothing on the list£46.30
Cost of not being able to see it£172.24
Her Christmas Sorted: £17. Once.
Who it's for

You know who she is.

She's you in October, already tired.

She's the one lying awake running the list. Who knows the grotto sells out, who tracks the parcels, who remembers which cousin doesn't eat dairy, who buys the spare roll of tape because she remembers what happened last year.

Nobody gave her the job. She picked it up first, and once you've picked it up you're the one who knows. Being the one who knows is a one-way door.

She's not bad at this. She's brilliant at it. She's just been doing it with no system, no help, and no thanks, and she's nearly out of road.

She deserves a December that isn't something to survive. If that's you, and it's you, keep reading.

This is not a course

No videos. No modules. No workbook. No homework.

No login you'll forget by the 3rd of December. It's a tool. You open it, you use it, it helps. It lives on your phone. It's yours, this year, next year, every year after. One payment, not a subscription.

£17
Get Her Christmas Sorted, £17

Instant access. Works on your phone, tablet and laptop. One payment, yours to keep.

Anna, in a white t-shirt, drinking tea with a magazine open across her lap. Head of Christmas, retired
I'm Anna

North East. Two kids. Businesses built from nothing. Fifty grand of debt at my lowest point. Perimenopause. PMDD. A marriage, a divorce, and all of it learned the expensive way.

I am not a lifestyle blogger with a beautiful kitchen and matching advent calendars. I'm the woman who did Christmas alone for twenty years, got sick of pretending it was fine, and then built the thing properly so you don't have to.

Her Worth is the manual nobody handed us. Jargon out. Honesty in. Permission granted.

Get Her Christmas Sorted, £17
£17
Get Her Christmas Sorted