When Holiday Table feel divided
Finding light when the holidays feel dark
There's something about this time of year that stirs up all our deepest longings for connection. The way the early darkness creeps in, how the air grows still with winter's whispers - it all seems to amplify our desire to draw close to those we love. But lately, I've been sitting with a difficult truth: sometimes the people who should feel closest can feel worlds apart.
I recognize the tension in my own body first: the tightness in my shoulders, the way my breathing gets shallow when Uncle Mike starts in about politics, how my hands grip my water glass a little too tightly when someone makes that passive-aggressive comment about my life choices.
These gatherings that once felt bathed in golden light - the warm glow of candles, my mother's laughter floating from the kitchen - now carry an undercurrent of unspoken words and careful silences.
I've learned that grief comes in many forms, including mourning the easy closeness we used to share.
But I've also learned that survival requires strategy, not just sentiment.
So I keep a "fuck-it list" (yes, really) of exit strategies when things get too intense.
Sometimes I suddenly need to "check on something in my car" or "make an important call." Having these escape hatches planned in advance helps me feel less trapped.
And honestly? A five-minute breather in my car, cursing under my breath or blasting music, has saved more family relationships than any amount of patient discussion.
Instead of trying to fix everything or change minds, I'm learning to create gentle boundaries - not walls, but soft edges that protect everyone's tender places.
I treat these gatherings like a marathon, not a sprint. I show up with my emotional battery fully charged - which means protecting my energy the day before.
No draining phone calls, no social media doom-scrolling, no trying to squeeze in last-minute errands. Just quiet time with a book, a long shower, maybe some mindless TV. Whatever fills my cup before it gets drained.
When conversations turn toxic, I've gotten better at changing the subject without apology. "Hey, has anyone watched that new show about deep sea creatures?" might seem like an obvious deflection, but it works surprisingly often. People usually welcome the relief of talking about something - anything - else.
I've found peace in small rituals too: lighting a candle each morning during the holiday season, taking slow walks in the winter air when the house feels too full of unspoken words.
These quiet practices become anchors when emotions run high. And sometimes, when the weight of different worldviews feels suffocating, I remember that I don't actually have to stay for six hours.
Showing up, sharing a meal, and leaving while everyone still has their emotional composure intact is a valid choice. Better two hours of genuine connection than six hours of walking on eggshells.
“Love doesn’t require perfect alignment. ”
Like an old quilt made of mismatched patches, family can hold together even when the pieces don't perfectly match. What matters most isn't crafting perfect harmony but nurturing moments of genuine connection where we can find them.
Maybe it's watching birds at the feeder with my father in comfortable silence, or finding unexpected laughter in the kitchen while doing dishes.
These aren't perfect solutions. They won't heal deep family wounds or bridge impossible divides.
But they help me stay present without losing myself. They create enough space for both love and boundaries to exist in the same room.
And sometimes, in these imperfect moments of navigation, I find unexpected pockets of real connection - the kind that reminds me why I keep showing up, year after year, to this beautiful, messy thing we call family.
In these shorter, darker days, may we all find ways to keep our hearts warm and our spirits resilient.
May we remember that even when families feel divided, we can still create spaces of peace within the complexity.
