The Things We Carry Through Holidays
On Family, Fracture Lines, and Finding Your Way
I don’t know how my family does it but somehow we get it done.
These words written in cursive across my elementary school journal, feel like artifacts from another life—one where our small, scattered family somehow always found our way back to each other. Reading that sentence now, in my 30s, is jarring.
The family I know today exists in fragments—distant, sparse, and separated. Holidays have become exercises in careful navigation, with unspoken rules about what to say (or not say) depending on who is present. Time is spent orchestrating package deliveries and drop-offs rather than creating memories with one another.
I often wonder if my childhood perception was naive, if we were always this fractured and I simply couldn’t see it. Or perhaps this distance grew organically over the years, cultivated by life experiences, lost connections, and family members drifting further away. I’m not sure I’ve settled on an answer for that.
Every family carries its own struggles, stories, and (supposed) strength. But beneath the fairy tales and generational pressure lies a harder truth: Sometimes the myth of legacy becomes stronger than the people standing before you.
My enthusiasm for holidays has dimmed over the years, eroded by political division and relatives who can’t resist turning dinner tables into debate stages.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s simply the natural order—children growing into adults with chosen families of their own. But a part of me feels like there’s a conscious choice there.
My grandparents are long gone. Both of my paternal grandparents died before I was born, and I never had a real opportunity to know either of my grandmothers. My mom tells me that my dad’s parents were the heart of Christmas, and that when they died, many traditions died with them.
Instead of moving closer together, our family drifted further apart - a paradox that makes perfect sense to anyone who's watched loved ones prioritize time with spouse's families. And how could you blame them, when those families are more connected and whole than our own?
“So what are you doing to celebrate Thanksgiving this year?”
This question hangs awkwardly when you don’t celebrate or have an elaborate plan. Year after year, I’ve perfected my response: “Oh, I just do my own thing these days.” But sometimes, the solitude offers an unexpected gift.
Like last year, when I spent the day alone. With my parents at Lake Anna, I had the entire house to myself. A reminder of what being alone, truly alone felt like. I did Peloton’s annual Turkey Burn ride and run, with the music turned all the way up. I remember sitting in the family room afterward, finding peace in just being. Silence, stillness.
Solitude is my safety net.
Perhaps now you’re wondering, how this is relevant to sexual health, why you’re reading about my fractured Thanksgiving traditions. The truth is, choosing a career in sexuality was another fracture line—one that some family members never quite accepted or understood.
In my work, I meet many others who carry similar stories—holidays shaped by careful conversations, empty chairs at dinner tables, each of us navigating the complexity of being different. Some are queer individuals navigating family dynamics, others are sexuality educators like myself who chose a path that challenged family expectations. We all share that experience of redefining celebration, of creating meaning in the spaces left behind.
Looking back at my elementary school journal entry now, I realize that "somehow getting it done" means something entirely different as an adult.
Sometimes it means finding celebration in solitude, connection in unexpected places, or family in the communities we build. Sometimes it means acknowledging that the very things that create distance—our authenticity, our choices, our work—are also what allow us to help others bridge their own gaps.
That girl who wrote about her family finding ways to come together couldn't have imagined where life would lead. But perhaps she already understood something essential: that "getting it done" isn't about maintaining traditions at any cost. It's about creating new ones that honor who we've become, even—or especially—when that journey leads us away from where we started.
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