For a long time, I differentiated between my family of origin and my chosen family—the group of people I was born into versus the community I sought out in adulthood. This line in the sand was an essential boundary in the early stages of my healing from intergenerational trauma. And it wasn’t just a metaphor—there were holiday visits I declined, vacations I opted out of, and phone calls I didn’t take. This was a way of claiming my independence, distancing myself from the values of blood relatives, and leaning into the feeling of being truly seen.

In the last few years, though, I’ve been opting back into my family of origin. As I entered in my credit card information to spend yet another $350 on a flight to see my family this year, I realized: I am choosing this. Regardless of the baggage or cost, I am choosing them.

The delineation of “my family” and “my community” no longer feels like a helpful binary as I consider the choice I actively make every year to commune with the people I’m related to.  Our annual gatherings aren’t based on having the same exact values or speaking the same political language, but we do gather with intention: to acknowledge our shared history, to renew our commitments to caring for one another, and to learn who each of us is becoming (even if we don’t always like what we see).

When I orient myself to the idea of family as “the people I’m not choosing”, I enter the holidays already exhausted, already resentful. I show up ready to confirm what I think I already know—that I will be disappointed. My presence becomes a sort of challenge: “See if you can prove me wrong, and maybe you’ll see me again next year.”

This orientation to my family, regardless of how valid and protective, is not one that has lent itself to building trust over time. Without that trust, I can’t expect my family to be willing to hear me out on topics that trigger them.

Lately, I’ve been forced to reckon with urges to bring cancel culture into my own family. It is so much harder to think about restorative justice when applied to the people I grew up with.  How can I build enough trust to have hard conversations if I’m ready to litigate any wrong move?

Alternatively, when I take ownership over the way I spend my time, including my choice to attend my family’s holiday gatherings, I see myself as an accountable, active participant in shaping the dynamics that unfold. I can shape these dynamics through boundary-setting, curiosity, attunement to my nervous system (and those of others), and using my voice. I can hold gratitude for my access to really wonderful teachers and mentors without holding it over others as if it makes me superior.

My family of origin may no longer be my core community, but they are a community I am choosing to be part of when I say “yes” to their invitations. How do I want to show up as a member of this community? What skills and resources do I uniquely bring to the table?

This realization comes at a time when all of us are still treading water post-election and anticipating needing to do so for a very long time. It is so understandable that we might be feeling less patience for interactions with family, and might be setting firmer boundaries. I honor your process as it relates to how you conceptualize family this year. Some family members are not safe and must be avoided, permanently. Opting out is not a weakness, and setting a boundary is not the same thing as cancelling someone.

My journey has me entering the holidays with one question at heart-center: How can I use trust-building to create spaciousness for hard conversations with the people I choose to spend my time with?

If you find yourself asking the same question or you have already cut ties with family members for valid reasons that you still need to process, you can unpack these complexities with a values-aligned therapist who can empathize with your situation.

Photo Credit: Happiest Season