The time is early December, and I find myself sitting in a therapist's office in the heart of London, gearing up for an hour of pre-Christmas family therapy. Beyond the window, the Christmas lights are twinkling. I can hear a celebratory drunk person drifts up from the street. But inside the consulting room, an eerie silence prevails. My mother, my sister, and I sit in squishy armchairs, pretending to admire the art while actually sizing up each other like prizefighters. My father is just a tiny, flickering face on a smartphone, balanced on a cushion. He is skeptical of therapy but compromised by joining via video call. He keeps falling off his cushion.
“Shall we begin with gifts? Or the meal?”
The counselor looks benevolently at us through her glasses. In her eighties, she has a profoundly experienced air—as if she has seen every form of dysfunction imaginable. She lets the silence hang before speaking.
Our family started "holiday counseling" eight years ago, after a celebration so disastrous my mother decided we needed external intervention. The specifics are hazy, but I clearly remember wrestling with my mother over a dish of roast potatoes. I also remember hurling a potato. In response, my mother brandished a carving knife at me and stated, “I would like to run you through with this knife.” We skipped Christmas dinner altogether. My mother walked the streets by herself, smoking, while the rest of us sat on the sofa watching a holiday film.
The Goal of a Holiday-Resistant Family
When we began therapy, the dream was to inoculate our relationships. The idea was to voice complaints in advance, in the presence of a therapist, to avoid future strife. However, in practice, it plays out as an annual December hour where we dole out "holiday duties" while dropping awful truths about each other's characters. My mother looks at me and states, “You do the turkey, Kitty, because you want to control everything.” I then retort, “I don’t think you should do anything this year, Mum, because you get overwhelmed.”
I believe we all sincerely want a happy Christmas, but we also seek victory at therapy—which means gaining the implied approval of our therapist. In the immediate aftermath the potato incident, winning meant acting more rational than you were. Initially, we were subdued and made sensible suggestions about chore rotas. But lately, we've learned we can garner more sympathy by exaggerating our personal struggles. My sister talks about her anxiety; I mention my rage. It feels strangely thrilling to analyze ourselves this way, as if we are truly up against it. Sometimes we go too far, and our therapist cuts in: “Remember, it is your mother who is struggling.” My mother then grins. “Yes, I can’t cope because I’m not well.”
Eleven Months of Relative Peace
The curious thing is, outside of Christmas, we get along. I lived with my parents until I was 29, not just because I couldn’t afford to leave. I liked it. For eleven months of the year, we avoid keeping score. We talk on the phone frequently and share humorous things in a messaging group. I even value that we are at times bad-tempered and melancholy together—it feels authentic, with no pressure to put on an act. But then December arrives, and we abruptly start trying to sand off each other's hard edges all over again, trying to create an impossibly perfect family image.
A Shift in The Family Equation
In the past few years, however, something has changed. My mother was formerly the one who arranged our annual therapy session and panicked about possible conflict. Lately, she seems less invested. My sister and I, now in our early 30s and without children of our own, have become more managerial of the family we have, while our parents appear more and more relaxed. They both joined social media recently and last year spent considerable time on their phones. They wouldn't always come to the table when called. My mum retreated to her room often, not wrapping presents but resting. She didn't appear particularly upset by arguments. When I shouted, she didn’t shout back.
We addressed some of this last week. A new rule is being introduced this Christmas: everyone must switch off their phone and place it in a container in the kitchen. Our therapist also suggested taking a breath and counting to ten before shouting. But I could sense my mother’s heart wasn’t really in it. She had experienced liberation and now just wanted to nap and play on her phone.
The Litmus Test and Letting Go
For me, Christmas remains like a barometer for my entire existence. The degree of joy and peace I feel on the day seems like an terrible premonition of the quantity I can expect in the future. The harder I try to bend my family to my will, the more disappointed I feel—and so the cycle continues. I find it hard to let go. But my parents have released it. My mother has proposed that next year, my sister and I attend therapy by ourselves.
