What to do when holiday family visits trigger old aches and wounds.
When I was eleven, I stood still, watching, as a herd of buffalo gathered in a tight circle about ten meters away. Something was happening, and I waited in silence, some boredom (I was eleven, and it took time) and growing curiosity. Finally, the group loosened, and I watched with a thrill as a newborn, knobby-kneed calf struggled to find its feet for the first time.
Some families are buffalo. They protect and support one another through the monumental moments, then continue as a herd to nurture the young, to nuzzle and snuggle at night, to provide collective safety and community throughout life.
The first time I saw sea turtles hatch and scrabble toward the sea, I felt a twinge of outrage and sadness. Where were their mothers? They were laid, then left to fend for themselves.
My family are turtles.
There’s no significant hostility or animosity anymore. There’s just no real sense of curiosity or interest or awareness that other mammals remain in the lives of their young throughout the lifespan. I can’t really be angry about this. You can’t blame a turtle for fulfilling its understanding of the basic job requirements. For me, this leaves a gaping void, but it’s futile to rage into a void.
I emailed my family enthusiastically: “Great news! There’s a brand-new direct-shot flight there from LAX! More good news: I’m booked on this flight for Christmas! Here’s the details…”
Days passed. Crickets. Then a brief email back from my mom: “That’s fine. You’ll need to rent a car.” The enthusiasm was … underwhelming.
Visiting family is tricky. We go back to the places where all our hot buttons were installed. We visit the sites of our traumas, come face-to-face with our ghosts, the ones we thought we’d left behind.
I’m grateful for the peace that has been fostered through hard years of calling out lies and confronting revisionist history, forcing attention to ugly truths, unwavering against gaslighting, receiving acknowledgement, and slowly moving toward forgiveness. I’m grateful that the home I was once thrown out of as a child now opens its door to me, so I can commune with siblings I once thought lost to me forever. To be able to join in as carols are sung and cookies are decorated with growing nephews and nieces, to gather together around the crackling fire, to bundle up and build snowmen with the next generation in the back yard. And yet… going back to this place wakens the vulnerable child in me, ever alert for signs of rejection. Misreading and magnifying cues of buried wounds.
I’ve begun a practice of daily meditation, sitting before a towering tree in my backyard. Leaves scatter like golden gifts in a soft carpet around it, and I settle cross-legged into the earth, resting the backs of my hands on my knees, closing my eyes. Sometimes I simply breathe, and sometimes I listen to a guided meditation. Today I selected one entitled “You Are a Gift.”
As the guide spoke, my breath slowing, my back tall, my eyelashes gently resting below my eyes, I heard the words: you are supported by the love of your ancestors. The message was so jarring, so dissonant to lived experience that my eyes popped open, taking me out of meditation. You are supported by the love of your ancestors. I forced myself to close my eyes again. I thought of all for whom this is true and felt warmth in my heart for their connections. But I could find no place for those words to land in my own memories. Did my grandparents love me? I was one of many dozens of grandchildren; not the first, not the last. They knew my name. I visited them at their distant homes. I attended some of their funerals, not all. I may have loved them (some more than others). But did they truly support or love me?
My ancestors are turtles. They lay their eggs and move on, leaving the hatchlings to find their way to sea and their own lives, where they swim and float and drift further and further apart. Each set of hatchlings moves on and away from the place where they began. A new country with each generation.
Or perhaps feral cats are a better metaphor: they feed their young through infancy, then move on. If they encounter one another again after weaning, they sniff each other with a mixture of familiarity, curiosity and indifference, but there is no joy at reunification; no intention to remain close. It’s not that they’re callous, these turtles and cats; they just don’t see a reason for anything more. I have to find peace with that. Accept the past, the arid ground from which I grew, even as I plant and nurture something new and different in a foreign land.
As you travel for the holidays or stay home, join with relatives or remain alone, in large gatherings or intimate groupings, know that you are precious. Your value doesn’t come from the acknowledgment of others – not even parents or siblings. It doesn’t come from the soil in which you grew, whether you struggled to sprout against all odds or flourished in fertilized ground. The seed was always good, always valuable. And the YOU who grew from that seed remains and always will be so.
As you load your suitcase this December, be sure to pack awareness. Bring mindfulness into these places of origin, noting the dynamics that trigger intense reactions. Old patterns die hard, and dynamics you have outgrown in your daily life roar back to full flame in the kindling of original home.
While a wiser self may lead you from day to day as you work, study, parent, or play, a less secure child self may awaken in the walls within which she first grew. Notice him or her, giving this younger self loving attention and reassurance, taking time out from the festivities and chaos to be still and quiet when the child part begins to scream. Let him know that you hear him, that you – the wiser, competent self – will keep him safe. Journal the thoughts that arise, and perhaps save them to process later with your therapist. Soothe your child self with deep, slow breaths, and carry bravely on.
Whatever lies ahead in your holiday gatherings and travels, hold on to this essential truth. Return to origin may trigger old wounds, but grounded in this truth of your immutable worth, may you find holiday peace.