At first glance, it may seem banal to watch the same film again every year. But rituals rarely arise by accident. They serve functions deeply rooted in human needs: orientation, identity, and anchoring oneself within one’s own biographical space. Home Alone 2: Lost in New York has become exactly such a ritual for me—interestingly, only in young adulthood, when I discovered my love for New York and the film became more than mere entertainment.
In this context, New York stands less for the actual city and more as a symbol: density, possibility, restlessness, and at the same time a peculiar sense of comfort within chaos. In pedagogy, one speaks of aesthetic experience—the moment when an external impression triggers an inner resonance and becomes a kind of encounter with oneself. This is precisely the resonance I feel when the film presents its exaggerated, almost fairy-tale version of the city: the Plaza Hotel, Rockefeller Center, the night streets full of lights. It is not reality, but an aesthetic condensation that speaks to a particular part of me.
December is not a hectic time for me, but an energetically fragile one. As the year draws to a close, inner batteries weaken, external stimuli grow louder, and one’s own processing slows down. In such moments, rituals have a stabilizing effect. One might use the term ritualized self-care here—a concept that is gaining increasing importance in educational and social pedagogy. It describes actions that are not merely habits, but that enable self-regulation. Home Alone 2 is one of these stabilizing points: a constant that remains the same, demanding no performance from me, but instead returning me to a familiar aesthetic space.
Over time, my perspective on the film has shifted. What once primarily entertained me now holds a second layer. The character of the Pigeon Lady, the loneliness within the vast city, and the warmth of human encounter can be closely linked to the theory of narrative identity. This theory suggests that people shape their identity through stories—through the stories they tell about themselves, about others, and about the world. The film tells a big-city story of loneliness, hope, and the unexpected. Perhaps I recognize myself in it because, in cities, I do not see merely places, but mirrors: spaces of resonance that challenge and strengthen me at the same time.
It is conceivable that I watch the film every year because it reminds me of my own inner narratives. Perhaps also because it allows me a symbolic journey when I lack the energy to take a real one. Or because it reminds me of the importance of aesthetic education: the insight that films, images, and stories exist not only for entertainment, but as spaces in which one can recognize oneself.
And so, the annual viewing has become a quiet greeting to myself. To the part of me that feels freedom in the cinematic version of New York. To the part that draws strength from spaces of imagination and aesthetic experience. And to the part that, amid the stillness of December, needs a small piece of urban vastness in order to realign itself.