Unpopular opinion, but the holidays are a weird time.
Growing up, Christmas was stressful. My severely autistic sibling would destroy the tree and the presents beneath it if she wasn’t being watched. She’s a large, loud individual with a tendency to hit and shove, so as the younger sibling, I learned early to make myself scarce.
My personal response to all that tension? I totally helped by being hyperactive and over-the-top silly. I’m sure my tightly wound parents just loved it when I’d place my palms to my mouth and make fart sounds as loud as I could, right when they least expected it, or bounce around like a deranged kangaroo.
These days, I’m a “responsible adult” with a house, car, dog, cats, husband, kids, and a full-time job. Yikes! Don’t worry, I haven’t let all this responsibility squash out the good humour. I still surprise my family with well-timed “toot” noises, and my kids have taken up the tradition of silliness without any coaxing. It’s for them that I push through the holidays.
I’ve pieced together a Christmas enclave that nods to both my French Canadian and Lithuanian heritage. For me, Christmas Eve has always been more special than Christmas Day. I spend the day preparing a meal made with love that my kids will probably refuse to eat. Their disdain for tourtière, pickled beets and mashed potatoes is as strong as my love for them. Oh well.
Once the meal is ready, we set the table with a nice tablecloth, lay out our meal, and light a candle. That candle represents everyone we wish were joining us for dinner. Grandparents, my dad, my husband’s mom, a few uncles, and a son we lost. Each year, they all have a place at the table. And in honour of my Nana, we open a too-sweet bottle of Manischewitz, and we give a toast (the kids get ginger ale). Humour and sentiment live side-by-side at my house. All of this is conducted while we listen to the Jingle Cats.
Our Christmas is usually quiet. Our family is scattered across Canada. My mom and sister are in Montreal, and my husband’s parents are in Kelowna. Sure, we could buy overpriced plane tickets and scramble across the country, but we’ve decided that staying put is better for our mental health. It’s a very different kind of Christmas than the ones we grew up with.
Because we aren’t often with family during the holidays, whether because of distance or loss, I find this time of year to be a bit sad. In that, I know I share something with many of the older adults who come to Unison in Calgary and Medicine Hat.
When family is far away, whether by distance, the pain of estrangement, or passing, the holidays lose that fuzzy glow. Instead, the season can sharpen the pain of absence, even as we’re surrounded by warm greetings and the endless loop of cheery tunes that make the world feel more like a funhouse mirror than a winter wonderland.
I’ll say it again: the holidays are weird. But I don’t take for granted the loved ones I do have - the ones who are here, healthy, and well. While it’s not the raucous, picture-perfect Christmas of storybooks, we make the holidays special in our own way. And I know how lucky I am.
Much of what I now call family is chosen family. I’m fortunate to have a close group of friends with whom I can be my authentic self, and it’s a true relief. That’s one of the things I love most about Unison: it gives people the chance to make friends, and build a chosen family of their own.
Every Wednesday, a group of regulars comes to dance with the Kerby Sensations. It’s comforting to see familiar dancers enjoying the sway of the music by themselves, or with a partner. Familiar faces make Unison feel like home - a comfortable place with steady staff, dedicated volunteers, and people getting the help they need.
I’m lucky to have as my employer a homey, welcoming place, where friendship and connection can be the bridge to holiday wellbeing.