"Home" for the Holidays

As soon as Halloween fades and November arrives, the days become heavier, and the familiar rush of holiday planning begins. Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas Eve, family gatherings—all the joy and all the chaos that come with them. Growing up, I could never really find the joy others seemed to feel for the holidays. Every year brought drama, and most of it stemmed from the tension between my mother and stepfather’s families. There was always some reason for an argument, and my three siblings and I were caught in the crossfire. We were just witnesses to it all: the shouting, the fights, the bitter tears. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s—they were just days on the calendar.

These feelings lingered on, year after year, holiday after holiday. I was fortunate to join my wife’s warm, close-knit family gatherings, yet I found myself holding back from embracing the “good” feeling that surrounded me. Part of me felt an ache—a quiet envy—for what I’d never had. Watching them all together, the genuine smiles, the embraces, the laughter, the ease of exchanging gifts without tension or resentment... It was happiness without a shadow.

I remember that first Christmas with my wife vividly. We’d only been dating a couple of months, but they still welcomed me into their traditional Christmas Eve gathering. It was beautifully done, as it is each year, but that Christmas held a quiet sadness. My wife’s great-grandmother had been ill in the hospital, and just hours before the celebration, she passed away. Her father shared the news, and the air grew heavy with grief. I’d never lost anyone, and I felt strangely disconnected, awkward even, as if I couldn’t share in the sadness. I’d grown up emotionally detached, conditioned by my own childhood, and I felt like a stranger in this scene. Despite the sorrow, there were moments of warmth that evening. People held each other close, shared stories, shed quiet tears, but somehow still found comfort in one another. It was unlike anything I’d ever known.

For years, the contrast was stark: joyful, drama-free holidays with my wife’s family and chaotic, strained ones with my own. Over time, as my relationship with my wife deepened, she helped me see myself in a way I hadn’t before. She showed me what real love looked like—a love that was constant and thoughtful, someone who listened to me, who met my needs and reassured me in ways I’d never known. She celebrated my accomplishments, encouraged my growth, and helped me find a sense of worth that had long eluded me.

With her support, I started to realize I didn’t have to walk on eggshells or cater to fragile egos during family gatherings. I began to value the peace I felt at her family’s gatherings, a peace that didn’t require me to sacrifice parts of myself just to keep the calm. Gradually, I started putting my own needs and boundaries first. I came around less often, stopped reaching out as much, and when I did show up, I held firm against the jabs—both the direct ones and the subtle, passive-aggressive ones aimed at me or my wife.

By 2021, life had changed in ways I hadn’t fully anticipated. When my son, Theo, was born, it was like a dream I’d held in my heart forever had finally come true. I had always hoped for a son, and being blessed with him first was more meaningful than I could have ever described. From his first moments, we formed a bond that felt uniquely deep, different from what I’d always imagined a father-son bond to be. At 30, my mental health had come a long way—I felt stronger and more stable than I’d ever been, and for the first time, there was hope that things could stay this way.

I promised myself that Theo’s childhood would look nothing like mine, that he would be raised with joy, warmth, and a sense of safety. The mere thought of him feeling the emptiness or sadness I had felt growing up made me fiercely protective, determined to keep his world filled with love and understanding. Anything that reminds me of him tugs at my heart in ways I never expected; he’s brought a sentimental side out of me that I didn’t even know was there.

So, I’ve made it a mission to fill his world with happiness—starting with making holidays something magical for him. We fill our home with lights and inflatables, create a warm, inviting Christmas tree, and surround him with the joy of the season. Last year, we even started our own tradition. Theo has an endless fascination with lights and decorations on people’s houses around Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. So one night, as we were pulling into the neighborhood, I decided to do something special. I parked, let him sit on my lap, and drove us slowly through the neighborhood to admire all the decorations.

The first time, he looked a bit confused, wondering why we’d stopped. But once he was on my lap, watching everything from a whole new angle, his face lit up in a way that’s impossible to forget. He looked up at me with pure joy, this innocent, happy smile that made my heart feel like it might burst. Now it’s something we do every week from October to December, and he lights up every single time, just like that first night. This small tradition, in many ways, feels like a reminder of what I want for him—a life filled with small, unshakeable moments of joy and love.

If you've read some of my earlier stories, you already know about the strained relationship I have with my family. The holidays are particularly rough for me because, no matter what, I prioritize the family I’ve created over the one I came from. I try to shield them as much as I can from the toxicity I grew up around, limiting the time we spend with my side to keep the peace.

My mother has always been a difficult person, weighed down by insecurities and the burdens of her own past. Her generational trauma seems to have shaped her into someone who needs to be right, needs to be in control, needs to have the final say in everything. Whenever anyone suggests she try to soften her approach, maybe make things easier so people enjoy being around her, she responds the same way: "I'm [xx] years old; I'm not changing for anyone."

Normally, the holidays would bring a handful of frustrating, but minor, interactions to manage, but this year is different. This time, my mother’s sisters and her mom—my grandma—are all coming for an early Thanksgiving. I have a good relationship with one of her sisters, but with the other two, it’s rocky at best. Two of my aunts are just as challenging to be around as my mother, each for their own reasons, which leaves me in a tough spot.

As I've said before, though, I'm not someone who waits around or begs for people’s attention. My focus is on my wife and kids—the only three people I truly need. Family should mean more than just shared blood. If they wanted to keep in touch, they’d call or text. But here we are, preparing to tread carefully around familiar minefields, with me just hoping to get through it intact for the sake of my family.