Ah, November. The calendar says gratitude, the grocery receipt says good luck, and the family group chat starts negotiating Thanksgiving arrangements like a miniature United Nations.
The negotiations begin innocently enough. Who's hosting? Who's bringing what? Will everyone fit around the table? Then come the dietary restrictions, travel arrangements, competing family obligations, and the annual debate over whether anyone actually likes that green bean casserole.
Suddenly, what was supposed to be a celebration of togetherness starts resembling a major international summit, minus the interpreters and expense accounts. And somehow, much of the planning, purchasing, cooking, decorating, and emotional diplomacy lands on women's shoulders.
We've become extraordinarily good at making things happen. We anticipate needs, remember preferences, accommodate schedules, and smooth over disagreements before anyone notices there's a problem. It's practically a superpower, but superpowers come at a cost.
Before the holiday madness begins, consider three things.
You Do Enough. Consider how much of the holiday workload exists because we've always done it that way. The elaborate, unchanging meal. The decorations that take days to put up and more to dismantle. The gifts exchanged between adults who already have more stuff than they know what to do with.
Traditions can be wonderful. They connect us to people, places, and memories. But somewhere between honoring traditions and maintaining them, we can become unpaid custodians of everyone else's expectations.
Who decided you were responsible for making everyone else's holidays magical? What if this year we asked which traditions actually matter—and who wants to help make them happen?
You Have Enough. We feel it. The holiday marketing machine is revving its engines. Apparently, a meaningful celebration requires coordinated table settings, a perfectly decorated home, thoughtful gifts for everyone, and enough food to sustain a small village through winter. Never mind that grocery prices have us reconsidering the economic viability of cranberry sauce.
But abundance isn't necessarily about quantity. Sometimes it's a crowded table, a familiar story, a recipe passed down through generations, or someone showing up with a pie and absolutely no expectations. We may already possess most of what makes the holidays memorable.
You Are Enough. What happens if the meal isn't perfect? If the house isn't spotless? If the gifts are modest, the decorations sparse, or the family gathering smaller than we'd hoped? Will the people we love think less of us?
Have we been holding ourselves to unreasonable standards? Maybe the greatest holiday negotiation isn't with our families, our budgets, or our calendars. It's with ourselves and that persistent voice insisting we must do more, provide more, and somehow be more to deserve a joyful celebration.
This year, before the festivities begin, let’s renegotiate the terms. Share the work. Question the purchases. Keep the traditions that bring joy and retire a few that have become obligations. The holidays are supposed to bring us together, not require one woman or two to hold the entire operation together.
I mean, even the United Nations occasionally adjourns for lunch.
