Holidays have a way of holding up a mirror—whether you’re ready to look into it or not. They come wrapped in expectations, nostalgia, and a whole lot of unspoken pressure to feel something that may or may not be true for you anymore. For some people, they really are some of the most wonderful times of the year. For others, it’s complicated. Heavy. Sometimes even quietly heartbreaking.
As a divorced, single mother of one, who unexpectedly found herself estranged from her family starting a few years ago, I’ve experienced holidays in just about every version you can imagine. And let me tell you, none of them have ever quite fit the picture we’re all sold.
When I was in high school and college, holidays didn’t always include me in the traditional sense. I was often tied up with band obligations, working (and since my sidehustle house and pet sitting business I used to pay for college revolved around holidays meant I couldn’t leave town, my family often traveled without me to visit relatives elsewhere. I got used to finding my place at other people’s tables. I became a regular at what I like to call “stand-in family” gatherings—friends who invited me in, handed me a plate, and made room without hesitation. And honestly, some of those moments were really beautiful. There’s something deeply meaningful about being chosen, about being welcomed into a space where you didn’t have to prove anything to belong. You were simply included and welcome.
Then came marriage, and suddenly there was no shortage of places to go. If anything, there were too many. Holidays turned into a logistical marathon—coordinating multiple houses, multiple meals, and trying to make sure no one felt slighted if we didn’t stay long enough. It stopped being about connection and started being about obligation. I can’t tell you how many times we loaded an exhausted and totally overwhelmed AJ into the car, shuffled schedules, and exhausted ourselves trying to meet everyone else’s expectations. We weren’t enjoying the holidays. We were managing them.
After my divorce, everything shifted again. I made a decision that felt both simple and incredibly heavy at the same time: I wasn’t going to split holidays for my son, AJ. I wasn’t going to spend Christmas or Thanksgiving moving him from one house to another just to keep things “fair” for the adults. Because let’s be honest, no kid is excited about spending their holiday bouncing between homes on a schedule. So I chose consistency for him, even when it meant sitting in the quiet on my own some years. It wasn’t always easy, but it was something I could stand behind by putting my som first.
And now, I find myself in a chapter I never expected to be writing about—estrangement.
This isn’t the kind of distance created by geography or busy schedules. This is the kind where the people who have been your family your entire life continue on as if you and your child no longer exist. Holidays still happen. Birthdays are still celebrated. Trips are still taken. They’re just happening without us, with no acknowledgment, no conversation, and no attempt to include us in any way.
There’s something uniquely painful about seeing your entire family gathered together in photos you didn’t even know were being taken. About realizing that not only were you not invited, but that your absence didn’t seem to register as something worth addressing. No one reaches out to say, “Hey, this is hard—how do we navigate it?” There’s just silence. And then, layered on top of that silence, are the well-meaning comments telling you to “be the bigger person” or to “just let it go.”
That phrase—“just let it go”—has to be one of the most casually dismissive things people say when they don’t want to sit with someone else’s reality. Let go of what, exactly? The lack of accountability? The absence of conversation? The absolute refusal to even acknowledge the issues and dysfunction that got us here? Let go of what feels like the complete erasure of a relationship? Or being told to “be the bigger person and the better Christian?” All because I drew a boundary with a sibling who’s behavior I’d tolerated for a lifetime but at the risk of raising another one of him I had to draw a line? That’s not how any of this works.
Even the kind messages can sting in ways people don’t intend. When someone says, “Enjoy the holiday with your family,” I know it’s coming from a good place. But it also assumes something that, for me right now, is complicated at best and nonexistent at worst. It’s a reminder of what’s missing, wrapped up in a sentiment that doesn’t quite fit my reality.
One of the more frustrating misunderstandings I’ve encountered is around the idea of boundaries. A friend recently suggested that what I’m experiencing is simply the result of a boundary I set being respected. And while that sounds neat and tidy, it’s not what actually happened. I set a boundary with one relationship—one. What followed was an entire family system choosing to disengage in a way that extended far beyond that original boundary. That’s not respect. That’s something else entirely.
What I’ve come to understand is that when you spend your life being the easy one—the people pleaser, the one who doesn’t rock the boat, the one everyone knows can “handle it”—the moment you finally say, “No, this isn’t okay,” it doesn’t just impact the one relationship you’re addressing. It exposes the entire dynamic. It shines a light on patterns that have been quietly operating for years. And not everyone is willing—or able—to look at that light. So instead, sometimes the system adjusts by removing the person who disrupted it. Nothing about that is normal. But for those of us who have lived inside dynamics like this, it’s also not unfamiliar.
There’s a narrative people tend to default to when they hear about family estrangement. It usually sounds something like, “Well, there must be more to the story,” or “Families don’t just cut someone off for no reason.” And while it’s true that every story has layers, it’s also true that sometimes the person who finally speaks up becomes the problem simply because they refused to keep playing along. Aka The “blacksbeep”.
I read something recently in a comment on one of my posts that hit me like a ton of bricks…in a good way. What if instead of “blacksheep” we start referring to us disruptors as the “blackgoats”. Yes, we’re still the outcasts out out to pasture for using our voices or setting boundaries or simply refusing to continue to tolerate abusive behavior, BUT we also did that and are standing in our power because we have the knowledge and the wisdom to know better and so do better. For ourselves AND our children. So going forward I’m the “blackgoat”. Got it?!
If you haven’t lived it, it can be hard to fully understand. You can empathize, you can listen, you can support—but you don’t feel the weight of it in the same way. And that’s okay. But it’s also why it matters to approach these situations with a little more curiosity and a little less assumption.
So here’s what I would offer, especially during holidays.
If you’re someone who is surrounded by family this time of year, take a moment to look beyond your own table. Think about the people in your life who might not have that same experience. The ones who say they’re “keeping it low-key” or “just relaxing this year.” Sometimes that’s true. And sometimes it’s a softer way of saying, “I don’t have a place to go.”
Invite them. Not out of obligation or pity, but out of genuine inclusion. And be mindful of the language you use. Instead of defaulting to “Enjoy the holiday with your family,” consider asking what the holidays look like for them this year. It’s a small shift, but it can make someone feel seen in a way that really matters.
As for me, I’m still navigating this. Some days I feel grounded and clear in the choices I’ve made. Other days, it still feels like a punch to the gut. Both things can be true at the same time.
But what I’ve also gained through all of this is a deeper understanding of what family actually means. It’s not just about shared DNA or history. It’s about behavior. It’s about who shows up, who takes accountability, who makes space for you to exist as you are.
My life may not look like the picture that gets advertised for various holidays, but it is filled with people who choose me, and who I choose right back. Friends who have become family in the ways that actually count. Relationships that are built on mutual respect, not obligation.
And I’m raising my son to understand something I had to learn the hard way: blood doesn’t make a family—behavior does. So we’re building something different. It may be quieter. It may be smaller. But it’s real. And in the end, that’s what I’ll take with me into every holiday moving forward.
