Why I Finally Stopped Hosting Christmas After Years of Doing It Alone!

In early November, I sent a message to the group chat. I acknowledged that the logistics were getting too much for one person to manage, but I also said how much I liked seeing everyone in a kind but straightforward manner. I suggested a cooperative strategy—a real potluck in which each person contributed a special dish, or maybe a pooled budget to pay for the skyrocketing price of goods. In order to assist me with the last preparations, I even proposed that a few individuals arrive an hour early.

There was an uncomfortable, deafening stillness in response. When the responses did come in, they were excuses rather than offers of assistance. The climax of the conflict occurred over the phone with a sibling who expressed the general opinion: “Well, since the party is at your house, it’s only fair that you do the cooking.” It has always been like way.

It was shocking how casual that statement was. It proved that my family viewed me as a service provider rather than a host. The luxury of being catered to without making any personal sacrifices was the “tradition” they loved the most, not the event itself. The years of invisible work suddenly became brutally apparent to me in that moment, and I understood that I had taught them that I didn’t need aid by never asking for it.

I made the hardest choice of my adult life after a few days of introspection. I let everyone know in a follow-up mail that I would not be hosting Christmas this year. I said that I needed a year to recover, and that I would be more than happy to come with a bottle of wine and a side dish if someone else wanted to take charge.

I thought there would be a rush of activity, maybe a terrified realization that would prompt someone else to step up, or a genuine apologies and a new offer to assist me. Rather, there was nothing. Nobody offered their house. Nobody recommended a dining establishment. No one put forward a revised plan. The family holiday get-together would have just vanished without my complete, unpaid labor as the motor.

The remorse felt like a thick, oppressive blanket at first. I felt like the antagonist of the tale, the one who had “ruined” the elders’ and kids’ Christmas on my own. I was concerned that I was wasting a couple hours of dishwashing time or that I was being petty. However, a distinct sensation started to surface as the days went by and the typical December craze did not materialize: a deep, crystal-clear sense of relief. When I saw a commercial for holiday hams, my heart rate didn’t increase for the first time in ten years.

The house was quiet on Christmas Day, but it wasn’t lonely. There was no pile of jackets on the bed, no desperate oven timer checks, and no awkward small conversation at a table that seemed too small for the egotistical people seated around it. For one person, I prepared a straightforward, excellent supper that included only the items I enjoyed. I put on a song I hadn’t listened to in years, lit a beeswax candle, and let the hours pass with a blissful lack of intention.