The Holidays I Both Love and Avoid

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with celebrations.
Holidays. Birthdays. Anything involving candles, expectations, and the unspoken question of so… how are we doing this year?

Growing up, our house wasn’t constantly full, but it felt full.
People dropped by. Conversations lingered. There was movement, noise, and the kind of warmth that didn’t need planning. It just existed.

After my father died, that atmosphere shifted. Not in a dramatic way.
Just subtly enough to notice.

I wasn’t alone: I still had brothers and a sister.
But my brothers were much older, already deep into their own lives. Sometimes there were long stretches without contact.
My sister had been out of the house for years.
So it became my mother and me and yes, she really tried. Decorations, dinners, keeping things going. She did her best.

And still, something was missing.
Not emptiness exactly.
More like a quiet space you keep bumping into, like a chair that’s been moved but your body hasn’t adjusted yet.

I was never the party-every-weekend type.
I did go out, occasionally.
But clubs were never my natural habitat.
Give me a good restaurant, drinks with people I actually like, or a cozy evening at home with candles and a series and I’m genuinely happy.
I’ve always been slightly suspicious of places where you can’t hear yourself think, or where the floor is sticky for reasons no one wants to investigate.
For a long time, though, I felt I had to explain that.
As if liking calm required a disclaimer.
As if staying in meant you were missing out, instead of simply opting out.

Part of that was preference.
Another part was insecurity.
Social situations felt loaded. I was always monitoring myself, as if there were invisible rules everyone else had received in writing, preferably laminated.
Sometimes avoiding the whole thing felt easier than navigating it.

Family holidays came with their own invisible choreography. Everyone knew the steps. Keep it light.
Don’t touch certain topics.
Laugh, but not too deeply.
It wasn’t unpleasant, just careful.
Like walking around fragile furniture you’re not allowed to move, even though it’s been in the same spot for twenty years.

Relationships added another layer.
The kind where you already know there will be tension before you even leave the house.
Where you smile through dinner while quietly thinking, we’re definitely fighting later.
Those experiences taught me something valuable: I don’t want celebrations that feel like emotional endurance tests.

Birthdays are complicated too.
I love the idea of celebrating big.
I also get nervous in groups.
Worried people won’t enjoy themselves.
Worried I’ll have to perform.
So I compromise.
One-on-one dinners.Small plans.
Things I can control without turning it into a production, or accidentally hosting a mild psychological experiment.

Gifts still make me uncomfortable.
When love has ever been tied to expectations, receiving things can feel loaded. So I give instead. I cook. I prepare.
I make sure people feel welcome.
I want my home to feel warm, not impressive, just safe.

What I don’t want is pity.
Especially around the holidays.
Invite me because you want me there. Not because you feel you should.

And somehow, this year feels different.
Not because everything is healed.
Not because the past stopped mattering.
But because I feel steadier.
Because I’ve closed some doors.
Because I’ve found new people who feel like family in ways that actually fit me.

Enjoying the holidays can mean many things now.
Snacks on the couch.
A beautiful dinner out.
Or New Year’s Eve at home with two cats and absolutely no pressure to count down loudly.

There’s still one tender moment, when couples automatically turn toward each other at midnight.
That still stings a little, not enough to ruin the evening, but enough to notice.
But for now, it’s enough that I’m no longer bracing myself when December arrives.
That I can enjoy the lights without feeling heavy.
That joy doesn’t have to look like the past to feel real.