Home For the Holidays

Before we talk about family.
Before we talk about the holidays.
Before we talk about grace.

I want to start somewhere much quieter.

I want to start with presence.

If you are reading this right now, I would invite you to pause for a moment.
Not long.
Just long enough to notice yourself.

Notice your body.
Notice your breath.
Notice the subtle hum of sensation that exists before thought arrives.

And then notice how quickly the mind wants to move on.

That impulse to check something.
That pull to skim ahead.
That tiny internal voice asking, “Where is this going?”

That, right there, is the doorway.

Because most of us are rarely where we are.
We are half here and half somewhere else.
We are physically present, but internally scattered.

And we don’t realize how much this matters until the holidays arrive and everything feels louder.

The distracted mind and the ungraceful holiday

One of the strangest things I’ve noticed over the years, both in my own life and in working with clients, is how distracted we are without knowing we are distracted.

Notifications buzzing.
Tabs open on our computers.
Tabs open in our minds.

We move from thought to thought, from task to task, from memory to memory, rarely landing fully anywhere.

Those notifications on your phone are not just external.
They are a reflection.

A reflection of how many emotional, psychological, and relational “tabs” you have open inside of you.

Every unresolved memory.
Every unspoken resentment.
Every expectation you carry into a room.
Every old emotional experience that never had space to complete itself.

All of them are still running in the background.

And just like a computer with too many tabs open, your system drains faster.
Your nervous system becomes reactive.
Your tolerance narrows.
Your capacity for grace shrinks.

Then December arrives.

And suddenly the system crashes.

We do not experience the holidays. We experience what the holidays represent.

This is where most conversations about the holidays go wrong.

We talk about logistics.
Schedules.
Travel.
Shopping.
Food.
Money.

But none of those things are the real issue.

The holidays are symbolic.

They are a mirror.

They amplify whatever is already unresolved.

Ask yourself this quietly, without rushing to an answer.

What do the holidays represent to me?

Not what you think they should represent.
Not what you tell other people.

What do they actually represent in your body?

For some, they represent warmth and connection.
For others, obligation and performance.
For others still, disappointment, grief, or a subtle dread they can’t quite name.

And here’s the important part.

You don’t consciously choose that response.

It is shaped by memory.
By family systems.
By childhood experiences that still live quietly inside your nervous system.

There are tabs open that you forgot were ever opened.

The family of origin never leaves the room

Whether we like it or not, our parents were our first teachers.

They taught us, without words, what love feels like.
What approval feels like.
What safety feels like.
What happens when we express ourselves.
What happens when we don’t.

And many of us are still living in unconscious loyalty to those early lessons.

Sometimes that loyalty looks like compliance.
Being the good child.
The responsible one.
The peacemaker.

Sometimes it looks like defiance.
The rebel.
The black sheep.
The one who does the opposite of whatever the family values.

Here is the uncomfortable truth.

Compliance and defiance are two sides of the same coin.

Both are still organized around the parents.
Both are still asking for something.
Approval.
Recognition.
Freedom.
Vindication.

And both are exhausting.

The holidays intensify this because they pull us back into those original roles with startling efficiency.

You may notice it the moment you walk into your childhood home.
You sit in the same seat at the table.
Your voice shifts.
Your posture changes.
Your nervous system remembers before your mind does.

None of this is conscious.

That’s what makes it powerful.

Loyalty is not the same as respect

One of the most important distinctions I’ve learned is this.

Loyalty is unconscious.
Respect is chosen.

Many of us are loyal to our parents’ values long after those values no longer serve who we are.

Others are loyal to rejecting those values, which is still a form of attachment.

Both create internal conflict.

And internal conflict is not just psychological.
It is physiological.

When you are constantly torn between who you are and who you learned you needed to be, your body pays the price.

Stress.
Tension.
Fatigue.
Irritability.
Shame that seems to appear out of nowhere.

Grace becomes difficult when your system is at war with itself.

Respect, on the other hand, is quieter.

Respect says, “I see you as you are, not as I needed you to be.”
Respect says, “I can honor where I came from without living there.”
Respect allows boundaries without rejection.

But respect requires something many of us were never taught.

Maturation of our younger, needy parts.

Accepting parents for who they are, not who we needed them to be

This is one of the most painful and liberating transitions a human being can make.

As children, we needed our parents.
Needing them was not a flaw.
It was survival.

But many of us are still waiting, decades later, for something that already passed.

The apology that never came.
The acknowledgment we deserved.
The attunement that was missing.

And every holiday becomes another silent audition.

Maybe this time it will be different.

What I’ve learned, slowly and often painfully, is this.

Your parents will be exactly who they are.
They will never be who you needed them to be.

Grieving that truth is not betrayal.
It is maturation.

And something unexpected happens when we stop demanding that the past be different.

We free ourselves.

Not because the past changes.
But because we stop dragging it into every present moment.

Grace begins there.

A question most people never ask

Whenever someone tells me they dread the holidays, I don’t immediately offer tools.

I ask a question instead.

How does a part of you benefit from having an ungraceful holiday experience?

At first, this question often feels offensive.

Why would I want this?
Why would I benefit from pain?

But stay with it.

Some part of you benefits from familiarity.
From repeating what is known.
From confirming old stories about who you are and what to expect.

Painful patterns persist not because we are broken, but because they once served a purpose.

They kept us connected.
They kept us oriented.
They kept us safe.

Until they didn’t.

Awareness of this is not about blame.
It is about choice.

You cannot change what you refuse to see.

Presence is not passive. It is revolutionary.

When you begin noticing what you typically don’t notice, something shifts.

You notice when you leave your body.
You notice when you perform.
You notice when you brace for impact before anything has happened.

You begin to see how often the present moment is being filtered through the past.

And that noticing creates space.

Space between stimulus and response.
Space between memory and reality.
Space for grace.

Grace is not politeness.
Grace is not endurance.

Grace is responsiveness instead of reactivity.

Expect the mess. Then be surprised.

One of the simplest and most counterintuitive suggestions I offer is this.

If the holidays have historically been difficult, expect that.

Not with resignation.
With realism.

Expectation is a cage.
It sets you up to be disappointed.

Realism creates flexibility.

If things go exactly as they usually do, you are less shocked.
If they go differently, you are genuinely surprised.

Surprise is a form of grace.

From surviving to thriving

Many of the behaviors we developed in childhood were brilliant adaptations.

They helped us survive emotionally.
They helped us belong.

But survival strategies become heavy when carried into adulthood unchanged.

The work is not to shame those strategies.
The work is to thank them.

To honor the intelligence of the younger self who learned how to navigate an imperfect world.

And then to ask, gently.

What would it look like to live now from choice rather than habit?

A closing image

There is a poem I return to often.

It speaks of two ways of being.

The small man
builds cages for everyone he knows.
While the sage,
Who has to duck his head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.

The question is not which one you should be.

The question is which one feels more graceful to you right now.

As the holidays approach, may you notice the tabs you forgot were open.
May you close a few that no longer serve you.
May you bring curiosity where there was once dread.
And may grace emerge, not because everything goes well, but because you are more present with whatever unfolds.

May you be here for it all

Jator 👽