Every year, when the festive season begins, I feel the excitement in the air—decorating the house, stringing up lights, preparing for family gatherings. I love this part. The collective mood shifts, and everyone becomes a little lighter, a little more joyous. As a kid, I waited for this time all year.

But now, as an adult, that joy comes with something else. A quiet dread settles into my body days before the celebrations begin. The same gatherings I used to look forward to now make me nervous. Because of the questions. The comments. The little needles.

"You've put on some weight, haven't you?"
"Have a kid before it's too late."
"How much do you earn now?"

Sometimes I wish people knew how these questions land. How, behind my polite smile, I'm shrinking. Replaying every insecurity I've been trying so hard to make peace with.

Why Do I Avoid What I Used to Love?

There have been years when I've avoided family gatherings altogether. I told myself I was too tired, too busy. The truth? I couldn't handle the scrutiny. I couldn't walk into a room knowing my worth would be measured in kilos or milestones.

So many times I've stood in front of my wardrobe, staring at traditional clothes, feeling a lump in my throat. Not knowing if I'd fit into them. Sometimes I didn't even try them on because I was too scared to see how much my body had changed. It's not just about clothes. It's about feeling like no matter what I do, I'll never be enough.

And this makes me so angry.

Anger at the judgment.
Anger that people think it's okay to comment on my body, my choices, my timeline.
Anger that everything has changed. The gatherings I used to enjoy don't give me the same happiness anymore.

But underneath that anger, there's also…sadness. Deep, quiet sadness.

Because I wish I didn't have to protect myself from my own family. I wish I could walk into those spaces and feel seen for who I am, not scrutinized for how I look or where I am in life. Because I still crave belonging, even when I tell myself I don't care.

The Cost of Choosing Safety Over Connection

It hurts to admit that sometimes I've chosen distance just to feel safe. I've missed moments, laughter, and connection. All because the fear of being judged felt heavier than the loneliness that followed. And then I'd feel guilty about that too. Angry one minute, sad the next. It's confusing how you can love your people and still feel like you can't breathe around them.

As a therapist, I see how common this is. So many of us walk into family spaces carrying invisible weight. The need to prove, to please, to perform. And every "harmless" comment reopens old wounds we thought had healed.

Small Ways I Care for Myself Now

When I think about navigating these gatherings now, I remind myself of a few things. Not as rules, but as small ways to care for myself.

It helps to acknowledge what I'm feeling first, without pretending the nerves or frustration aren't there. I notice them. Let them sit for a moment. Breathe.

I remind myself that I don't have to answer every question or attend every gathering if it doesn't feel safe. And when I do go, I try to look for the parts I actually enjoy. Hanging out with my close cousins. Family games. Talking about old memories. The moments that make my heart a little lighter.

I've learned to choose clothes that feel comfortable, not just ones that will pass judgment. And sometimes, just taking a few deep breaths, stepping aside, giving myself a private pause is enough to keep the day from becoming overwhelming.

Most importantly, I try to hold both feelings at once. The joy and the dread. The love and the fear. I remind myself that comments about my weight, my job, or my timeline don't define me. I've accomplished many things worth celebrating. That my presence alone is enough.

Festivals don't have to be about meeting everyone's expectations or competing about who's where in life. Celebration can be about letting yourself feel what you feel and finding small moments of comfort and connection.

And that is enough.