Every year or so, my family gets together for what I can only describe as a marathon hangout.
Siblings fly into town. Sometimes with their families. Sometimes without. And we try to cram as much fun, connection, food, and chaos as possible into three or four days together.
Beforehand, the same questions always start rolling in:
“What’s the plan?”
“Where is everyone staying?”
“What are we doing?”
“What time should we come over?”
And every single time, I feel myself starting to spiral.
Not because I don’t love my family.
Because somehow I end up feeling personally responsible for everyone’s experience.
The problem is that family systems are complicated.
Everyone has different expectations.
Different stress levels.
Different budgets.
Different energy levels.
Different definitions of what “together” should look like.
Some people want nonstop activity.
Some people just want to sit and talk.
Some people want structure.
Some people want flexibility.
And somehow my brain interprets all of that as a problem I’m supposed to solve.
For years, I thought I hated the holidays.
But I don’t think I actually hate the holidays.
I think I hate the feeling of trying to satisfy competing expectations.
Because once that switch flips in my head, I stop asking what I want and start trying to manage the emotional climate of the entire group.
If people come over and we don’t have enough planned, I feel like a bad host.
If everyone just sits around the house all day, I feel responsible for entertaining them.
If my immediate family wants quiet time and we don’t invite everyone over, I feel guilty.
Because my parents are divorced. My sister is a single mom. And when we rotate a given holiday with my wife’s side of the family or decide to keep things small, I worry they won’t have somewhere else to go.
And then I sit there imagining them alone on a holiday, bitterly eating Taco Bell or something while my wife and kids and I are doing our own thing.
And whether anyone explicitly puts that responsibility on me or not almost stops mattering, because internally I already feel it.
If someone feels left out, I feel responsible.
If someone gets stressed, I feel responsible.
And eventually I stop communicating directly altogether and start trying to quietly manage outcomes instead.
I soften things.
Delay conversations.
Try to prevent reactions before they happen.
Because emotional management often feels safer than simply telling the truth about what I want.
A few months ago, my therapist used the word codependency to describe some of these patterns, and once I started recognizing it, I began seeing versions of it everywhere.
Not just in myself.
In family systems.
In communication patterns.
In the strange ways people quietly manage each other’s emotions instead of speaking honestly.
People soften information.
Delay difficult conversations.
Try to control timing and reactions.
Carry emotional messages for other people.
Quietly absorb responsibility that may not actually belong to them.
Not because they’re manipulative.
Usually because they’re scared.
Because when you grow up believing that managing emotions or ensuring everyone else’s happiness is your responsibility, direct communication can start feeling dangerous.
Maybe I delay telling someone news because I’m afraid of how they’ll respond.
Maybe I avoid responding to texts because figuring out the “right” response feels emotionally overwhelming.
Maybe I soften information or leave details out because I’m trying to prevent conflict before it starts.
Maybe I rehearse conversations in my head before having them because I’m trying to manage reactions in advance.
Maybe instead of speaking up for what I want, I assume I’m a burden — then end up bitter for feeling unheard.
Maybe I hurry to clean the house before my wife gets home because I don’t want her to feel stressed or disappointed.
Maybe I instinctively step into the role of mediator, translator, or emotional buffer whenever tension appears.
Maybe I make excuses for other people because I feel responsible for protecting them from judgment.
Maybe I step in too quickly because watching people struggle feels unbearable.
Maybe I confuse helping people with managing them.
Maybe I try to control situations or tell people what they should do because I genuinely believe I know what’s best for them.
Maybe part of me still feels responsible for protecting people from themselves.
Maybe I take on too much because trusting other people feels more stressful than doing it myself.
Maybe I feel trapped between competing emotional loyalties and convinced that no matter what I choose, someone will end up hurt.
Maybe I say yes when I really want to say no because it’s easier than dealing with the pushback.
Maybe I quietly absorb responsibility for the emotional atmosphere of a room nobody actually asked me to manage.
Maybe I learned very young that being “mature,” “helpful,” or “easygoing” meant becoming emotionally responsible for situations that were bigger than me.
Maybe I mistake emotional management for love.
Growing up, I was always praised for being “the peacemaker.”
Looking back, I think that mostly meant I became extremely sensitive to tension and very good at managing the emotional atmosphere around me.
And honestly, I can watch the pattern happening in real time.
My daughter recently got married. As per tradition, the groomsmen and I wore matching ties to the wedding.
While waiting for the bride and groom to emerge, I noticed we had some extra ties, so I handed them out to the other guys there.
Not because anyone asked me to.
Because I didn’t want anyone — especially my brother — to feel left out.
Now we’re heading into the reception this week, and technically there isn’t even a dress code. The wedding party is coordinated, but nobody else is expected to match.
But my mother-in-law coordinated outfits for her side of the family because she wants family pictures afterward.
And immediately my brain starts spiraling:
Will my family feel excluded?
Will they wonder why they’re not matching too?
Should I order them matching ties?
But if I do that, am I just creating another version of the same problem?
What about the groom’s extended family?
Where does it stop?
My older brother asked if there was a dress code. I said no.
Then my younger brother asked if we’re wearing matching ties.
And suddenly I’m right back in the middle of the exact pattern I’m writing about!
Trying to emotionally regulate multiple extended families through neckwear.
It’s exhausting.
And even as I write this, I can feel myself thinking about how to manage everyone’s emotions when they read it.
How do I say this without hurting people?
How do I explain it carefully enough?
How do I keep someone from feeling blamed, exposed, misunderstood, or attacked?
And maybe that’s the point.
The pattern is still there.
But this week, something also felt different.
When all the “what’s the plan?” questions started rolling in, I stopped and asked myself something I almost never ask:
What do I actually want?
And the answer surprised me.
I want everyone staying at my house.
Not because I’m trying to manage everyone.
Not because I’m trying to prevent hurt feelings.
Not because I’m trying to control the experience.
I just genuinely want more time with my family.
I want people together.
I want late-night conversations.
I want the chaos.
I want the memories.
So instead of quietly trying to manage everyone’s emotions ahead of time, I had an honest conversation with my wife about what I wanted and why.
Historically, I think I’ve often approached situations like this by trying to emotionally engineer the outcome before anything even happens.
Manage expectations.
Manage stress levels.
Manage possible disappointment before it happens.
But this time felt different.
I was just being direct.
And I think approaching it that way changed the entire dynamic.
I’m realizing how much of my life has been spent trying to prevent emotional discomfort instead of tolerating the fact that other people are allowed to have their own feelings.
That doesn’t mean I stop caring.
It just means I’m slowly learning that caring about people and managing people are not the same thing.
And maybe that’s why the holidays have always felt so exhausting to me.
Not because I hate being together.
But because somewhere along the way, I started believing it was my job to hold everyone else’s emotional experience together.
0 Comments