Volunteering at Christmas often brings together people seeking connection, purpose, and a way to brighten someone else’s day during a season that can feel both joyful and lonely. In this personal story, Dan McIntyre reflects on a Christmas soon after his MS diagnosis, a time when he was adjusting to life in a wheelchair and searching for purpose. When he noticed a festive volunteer appeal at Dewsbury Hospital, he put his name forward – beginning a story of connection, quiet healing, and unexpected strength during a challenging season.
Three months after my MS diagnosis, I was still adjusting, physically, now using a wheelchair, and emotionally, still figuring out what I could offer the world. Then I spotted a small notice in the local paper.
Dewsbury Hospital was looking for volunteers to read to children who’d be spending Christmas on the ward. They were also after play leaders, but I knew my limits. I’m no leader, and certainly not the bouncy, glitter-glue kind. But I can read. And I do love stories. So, I tossed my name in the hat.
Gingerbread, giggles, and a new purpose after MS diagnosis
On Christmas morning, I wheeled myself into the children’s ward wearing a jumper with a gingerbread man on it, the one from Shrek, with a broken leg. When the kids asked about it, I’d grin and say, “He’s a little bit broken, just like me.” It always got a laugh.
I was there for four hours, reading to children whose parents couldn’t be there just yet, or had already come and gone. Some were shy. Some were chatty. One little girl asked if I was one of Santa’s helpers. I told her I was on loan from the North Pole Library.
What I didn’t expect was how healing it would be for me. In giving those children a bit of joy, a bit of story, I found something I hadn’t felt in weeks: purpose. I wasn’t just a patient anymore. I was a reader, a visitor, a bringer of stories and bad jokes.
That day reminded me that strength doesn’t always look like standing tall. Sometimes it looks like sitting beside a hospital bed, holding a book, and showing up, broken bits and all.
Tears, tinsel, and an unexpected kind of healing
I left the hospital just after lunchtime, the ward quieter now, the children dozing or watching Christmas films. The corridors were still decorated with tinsel and paper snowflakes, but for me, the festive buzz had faded. Outside, the streets were mostly empty, that hush you only get on Christmas Day.
I went home to an empty house. And that’s when it hit me. The stillness. The contrast. I’d spent the morning surrounded by children, nurses, laughter, and the occasional burst of chaos. Now it was just me, my wheelchair, and the whirring of the boiler.
I felt lonely. Tearful. And something else I couldn’t quite name. I cried, properly cried. Not out of sadness, but out of something gentler. Gratitude, maybe. Relief. The knowledge that I’d tried to make the day a little brighter for someone else. That I’d shown up, even when I wasn’t sure I had much to give.
They were happy tears, really. The kind that comes when you realise you’re still capable of connection, even when you feel broken. That gingerbread man on my jumper had a snapped leg, sure, but he was still smiling. And so was I.
I’ve had many Christmases since then, some loud, some quiet, some joyful, some complicated. That one, in the children’s ward, stays with me. Not because I did anything extraordinary, but because I showed up when I felt broken. And in doing so, I found a strength I didn’t know I had, the kind that whispers “you still matter.”
You can find out more about Dan McIntyre by visiting his website and following him on Instagram.
As the festive season returns each year, stories like this remind us how deeply Christmas moments can shape us. Have you ever found unexpected purpose during the holidays, or carried a favourite Christmas memory that still lingers? We’d love to hear your experiences, reflections, or the traditions that mean the most to you. Let us know in the comments box, on social media or contact us to share your personal story.