For many years, the arrival of December didn’t bring me a sense of wonder; it brought a familiar, creeping sense of dread. In the unspoken hierarchy of my extended family, hosting Christmas had ceased to be a choice and had morphed into a rigid, non-negotiable expectation. Because my home happened to be the largest and most centrally located, it became the default theater for our annual holiday production. Year after year, I leaned into the role, rearranging furniture to accommodate the masses, curating elaborate menus, and spending weeks navigating crowded grocery aisles. I told myself that the labor was a labor of love—that the sight of a dozen or more relatives laughing around my table was worth the physical, financial, and emotional toll.
However, the reality behind the scenes was far less picturesque. While my guests were enjoying the warmth of the fire and the bounty of the spread, I was a ghost in my own home, tethered to the kitchen and the sink. Last year’s celebration felt like the final straw. I spent hundreds of dollars on a prime rib roast, organic sides, and fine wine, and devoted three full days to preparation. Not a single person offered to help with the cost, and as the evening wound down, I stood alone at the dishwasher for two hours while everyone else relaxed in the living room, eventually leaving with tupperware containers full of the leftovers I had paid for and prepared. By the time I sat down at midnight, I didn’t feel festive; I felt exploited.
As the holidays approached this year, I felt a shift in my internal weather. I realized that I wasn’t actually upset about the act of hosting itself—I genuinely enjoy hospitality. What I was tired of was the invisibility of the effort. I was tired of carrying the weight of an entire family’s traditions on my back without a single hand reaching out to steady the load. I decided that this year, the arrangement needed to evolve into something more equitable.
I sent out a message to the group chat in early November. My tone was gentle but clear: I expressed how much I loved seeing everyone, but I admitted that the logistics were becoming too much for one person to handle. I proposed a collaborative approach—a true potluck where everyone brought a signature dish, or perhaps a shared fund to cover the soaring cost of groceries. I even suggested that a few people come over an hour early to help me with the final prep.
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