The time is early December, and I find myself sitting in a therapist's consulting room in the heart of London, gearing up for an hour of holiday-season family therapy. Outside, holiday lights shimmer. The sound of a celebratory drunk person drifts up from the street. Yet within the therapist's office, an eerie silence hangs. My mother, my sister, and I sit in squishy armchairs, feigning interest in the art while actually sizing up each other like prizefighters. My father is merely a small, pixelated face on a smartphone, balanced on a cushion. He doesn't really believe in therapy but relented by dialling in via video call. He repeatedly slips off his cushion.
“Should we start with presents? Or the meal?”
Our therapist looks kindly at us through her glasses. In her eighties, she has a profoundly experienced demeanor—as if she has seen every form of family dysfunction imaginable. She lets the silence hang before speaking.
Our family started "holiday counseling" eight years ago, after a celebration so disastrous my mother decreed we needed external intervention. The specifics are fuzzy, but I clearly remember grappling with my mother over a dish of roast potatoes. I also remember hurling a potato. In response, my mother waved a carving knife at me and stated, “I would like to run you through with this knife.” We didn't eat Christmas dinner altogether. My mother walked the streets by herself, smoking, while the rest of us remained on the sofa watching a holiday film.
The Goal of a Christmas-Proof Family
When we began therapy, the dream was to Christmas-proof our family dynamic. The idea was to air grievances in advance, in the presence of a therapist, to avoid future strife. But, in reality, it plays out as an annual December hour where we assign "holiday duties" while dropping awful truths about each other's personalities. My mother will look at me and says, “You do the turkey, Kitty, because you need to manage everything.” I then retort, “I don’t think you should do anything this year, Mum, because you get overwhelmed.”
I think we all genuinely want a joyful Christmas, but we also seek victory at therapy—which means securing the implied approval of our therapist. In the immediate aftermath the potato incident, winning meant acting saner than you were. In early sessions, we were subdued and made sensible suggestions about task lists. Yet more recently, we've learned we can get more sympathy by exaggerating our issues. My sister talks about her anxiety; I mention my rage. It feels strangely thrilling to analyze ourselves this way, as if we are truly in a battle. Sometimes we go too far, and our therapist cuts in: “Remember, it is your mother who is not always mentally well.” My mother then grins. “Yes, I can’t cope because I’m unwell.”
Most of the Year of Easy Harmony
The curious thing is, when it's not Christmas, we have a nice time. I lived with my parents until I was 29, not only because I lacked the funds to leave. I liked it. For eleven months of the year, we avoid keeping score. We talk on the phone often and share humorous things in a family group chat. I even value that we are at times bad-tempered and melancholy together—it feels honest, with no pressure to put on an act. But then December rolls around, and we suddenly start attempting to smooth each other's hard edges all over again, trying to create an impossibly idealized family portrait.
A Shift in The Family Equation
In the last couple years, however, something has shifted. My mother was once the one who organized our annual therapy session and worried about potential tensions. Lately, she seems more detached. My sister and I, now in our early 30s and lacking children of our own, have become more controlling of the family we have, while our parents appear increasingly laid-back. They both joined social media recently and last year spent considerable time on their phones. They didn’t always come to the table when called. My mum retreated to her room often, not doing chores but resting. She didn't appear particularly upset by arguments. When I shouted, she didn’t shout back.
We discussed some of this in our recent session. A new rule is being introduced this Christmas: everyone must switch off their phone and place it in a bowl in the kitchen. Our therapist also suggested closing our eyes 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 desired to nap and play on her phone.
The Litmus Test and Letting Go
For me, Christmas still feels like a litmus test for my entire existence. The degree of joy and peace I feel on the day seems like an awful omen of the amount I can expect in the future. The harder I try to bend my family to my will, the more let down I feel—and so the cycle continues. I find it hard to release control. But my parents have released it. My mother has suggested that next year, my sister and I attend therapy by ourselves.
