How I Learned to Embrace My Tradition of Being Untraditional

Oh, the holidays. For some, they’re the greatest, full of ridiculously fun family memories and warm, fuzzy feelings. For others, they can be a trigger.

For many years — most of my life, actually — I felt like the holidays were just a series of months that didn’t apply to me. It was, simply put, a time to get through.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love celebrating. I believe just being alive is a call for celebration. My absolute favorite holiday is Halloween: no gifts, no family baggage, no strings attached. It’s the one day when we get to express ourselves, free of charge. The sun goes down, the night lights up, and every-body gets to be whomever they want to be. That’s my kind of day!

But for much of my life, as soon as November 1 would roll around, that was that. Party over. I would retreat to my holiday shell and wouldn’t come out until December 31 — just in time for New Year’s Eve, which I’ve always liked. Just think of the possibilities! Is there a better reason to whoop it up than a fresh start to a brand-new year? And possible kisses? Yes, please!

But growing up in an unconventional household, I only got that Peanuts Christmas charm by exchanging sea-son’s greetings with others. I’ve always loved that we have a short window when we all feel compelled to say to one another, “Happy holidays!” (Why don’t we have a cheery, universal salutation all year long? Come November, we can use “Happy holidays” as a friendlier hello or warm goodbye, or both. It’s great. It lifts everyone’s spirits — and then poof ! It’s gone.)

I also like that, during this part of the year, we’re supposed to be a little more giving, aware, and gentle. But this is also why the triggers can seep in. The holidays are about everyone but you. They’re about loved ones. And when you don’t really have family, it’s easy to feel like a Grinch-y old fart, no matter how old you really are.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love celebrating. I believe just being alive is a call for celebration.

Growing up, there was a certain point when I realized that when my mom bought me gifts, it was my money she was spending. That was confusing. I used to look in windows as I drove by houses during the holidays and see families around the table, twinkly lighting, merriment — all the things. And as much as I would idealize these settings, I would also wonder who was truly being themselves. Who was happy and comfortable and not stuck in an awkward conversation?

At least, I thought, I didn’t have to fake anything. I could just keep my head down between my nondenominational party bookends of Halloween and New Year’s and get on with it.

Over time, my tradition became to spend the holidays on my own. There were a few years when, to my surprise, I would be invited to my best friend Nan’s house for a holiday, and I love her family so much. Since I was 19, I’ve been a squatter at their holiday gatherings here and there, and they’ve always, always been fun. But for the most part, I just read.

I read so many books. Every year, I treated myself to another classic. And another. And another. I would read David Sedaris’ stories about the holidays and laugh and feel my heart warm. He was someone I didn’t mind spending the holidays with. He lightened up a heavy time for me. (Humor, I love you!)

The season became a two-month window in which to get smarter. Most schools would let out, and I would dive in deeper. This was when I pushed. I could escape and educate all at the same time. I wanted to have something to show for the season. “Look at all the books I read!” And that stack on the table would heal me. It was tangible. When I got older and busier than words can explain, the holidays became a time of travel and R and R. Over time, I found my way and became less dam-aged about the whole thing.

Then, at 37 years old, I had kids.

It’s true what they say: having kids changes everything. Now, the holidays mean something totally new. We do the Peanuts Christmas for real! I have a big box of ornaments that comes out of the garage every year. My kids and I decorate to the soothing sounds of Vince Guaraldi, and I am filling up emotional buckets that I never imagined I would.

I try to create an experience out of their winter break. I pick a flight on the last day of the school calendar, and we book it out of town. My kids always ask why they don’t get presents, and I always say, beaming, “This trip is your gift!”

I know they don’t get it sometimes, but they will one day. I say, “You won’t remember tearing boxes apart in a blur one morning, but you will remember grabbing your bags and having this adventure!” They stare at me, and I secretly spiral over my lack of tradition once again, if only for a moment.

We’ve gone to Tulum, Mexico, to be super-boho in our bare feet and swim in cenotes with catfish. We made it to bucket-list Italy, learning to make pizza from scratch and walking through town squares at night like happy tourists. There was a trip to beautiful Idaho, where we stayed in a wholesome, cozy town while snow fell all around us. We even hauled it to Costa Rica, a trip that felt like it took days, where we woke up to howler monkeys scrambling on our roof and adopted a few stray dogs for the duration of the trip.

During the pandemic, we were fortu-nate to be able to stay home and be together. We did the presents-under-the-tree thing, but that was not the best part. I felt pressured and stressed. The magic was in watching my girls make lists of what they wanted to give their friends and family. Wrapping the gifts was a highlight — the paper, the tape, the handmade gift tags!

But I’m ready to go again. As soon as we can, as soon as the world is safe, we’re out of here, off to make another memory. That is so worth every minute of energy, effort, and cost. And for this, I give my girls credit: If you open a car door or say the word “airport,” they are game for anything and anywhere. I like adaptable people.

“I’ve found my way around the holidays. In fact, I truly love them now.”

I’ve learned that our tradition is to create our own traditions — to do what feels right for that moment, on that day, in that time. I try not to stress too much if the hot cocoa gets cold, but to remember whom I’m sharing it with. My tradition is being present — not neces-sarily opening presents — in the little things we do, like sending postcards, or the big ones, like piling into the car and hitting the road.

Through the ups and downs, the solo missions, the gatherings big and small with relatives and chosen family, the books, and the flights, I’ve found my way around the holidays. In fact, I truly love them now.

It’s still a time to educate, expand, explore, and see the world. It’s still a time to see life from a new perspective, whether in the pages of a book or on an expedition. I still want to get out of my life and into another. Only now I get to do it alongside my kids.

We get the tree. We deck the halls. And then we get out of town, shouting, “Happy holidays!” to every person we see until January 1 rolls around.