Reparenting through the Holidays
Staying Connected without Losing Yourself
The holidays are often when old patterns come back to visit.
Even after years of inner work, this time of the year can still bring up the invisible loyalties, the guilt, the “I should go,” the fear of disappointing our family members. For many of us, holidays awaken the parts of ourselves that learned early to monitor the emotional weather. To keep the peace, to be easygoing, to focus on other people’s feelings.
Even if you’re spending the holidays alone, with friends, or opting out entirely, this season can still activate old dynamics. The comparison. The grief. The sense of being on the outside. The pressure to be happy.
Reparenting meets us wherever we are.
I used to think that being a good daughter meant showing up, denying my needs, and being easygoing. Underneath that was my inner child’s unspoken fear: if I don’t, will I still belong?
I hadn’t learned that I could choose rest.
Or space.
Or honor my needs.
Booking the Airbnb
As Thanksgiving approached ten years ago, my sister texted to ask if I wanted to join her and her boyfriend for the holiday at my parents’ house in another state. A knot formed in my stomach. My husband was on a pilgrimage in Spain, and I knew I’d be on my own with whatever came up.
Then I remembered the bathroom.
My mom had removed the door and replaced it with a curtain so my dad could get in with his wheelchair. The idea of sharing one bathroom with five people behind a flimsy curtain made my skin crawl.
I started searching Airbnb.
The prices over the holiday weekend were shocking, but I kept hearing a reparenting friend’s words:
“Sometimes you have to pay for peace of mind.”
I booked a small room.
It seemed like a bold act.
While my husband and I had once stayed at a hotel before, this was the first time I was visiting alone and not sleeping at my parents’ house.
When I told my mom, she said in a wounded voice:
“Don’t you love your mother?”
My stomach clenched with guilt.
I could sense the part of me that wanted to fix my mom’s feelings. And I could sense the loving, healthy presence inside who knew it was okay to take care of myself.
“Of course I do,” I said. “I just need some space.”
That was reparenting.
Whiskey on the Porch
When we arrived, Dad was on the enclosed porch, chain-smoking and nursing a Big Gulp of whiskey and Coke. My sister gave me a worried look.
A familiar heaviness settled in. I met her eyes and looked away.
He’d been drinking like that for years, a half gallon of hard liquor a day, long before the fall that left him in a wheelchair.
Mom came home with arms full of groceries, turned up the music, poured us all wine, and started dinner. Everyone was talking at once. Dad’s cigarette smoke choked the air. A headache pounded in my temples.
I ate with my sister and her boyfriend while Mom shuttled back and forth between us and Dad on the porch. After helping clean-up, I pulled up my Airbnb listing and said, “I’ll be back in the morning.”
Mom crushed me into a hug:
“I don’t know why you have to stay somewhere else. You can stay here on the couch.”
I shook my head. “I’m good, thank you, though.”
Dad wheeled into the kitchen from the porch, his brow creased. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
I sighed. There was no easy way to explain.
“I love you, Dad,” I said, bending down to hug him. “I just need to,” I said, and headed toward the door.
Driving into town, my body let out a long breath.
Space.
Quiet.
Reparenting, in that moment, looked like getting a room.
We don’t have to do this alone
The next day, I had lunch with a friend who lived nearby. I cried in a Chinese restaurant as I described Dad drinking alone. I told her I wanted to ask him why.
She looked at me gently and asked, “Why don’t you?”
In my family, alcohol was the air we breathed, but we didn’t talk about it.
At the thought of broaching the subject, my mind went blank.
“I just don’t know how to ask it,” I said.
My friend said, “What if you ask him, ‘It looks like you’re killing yourself from where I stand. Why are you doing that?’”
My mouth went dry. “I don’t know if I can do that, but I will try.”
Reparenting, in that moment, looked like letting myself be supported.
Sitting With My Dad
After lunch, I stopped by my parent’s house. Everyone was gone except Dad, who was on the porch, watching reruns of The Munsters. I sat beside him, wanting to ask my question.
But my throat closed every time I tried.
We sat together for an hour, falling into a familiar pattern. He commented on the show, told stories from his life, I listened. When I headed back to my room, I felt disappointed that I hadn’t worked up the courage.
Years later, I don’t see that moment as a failure.
I see tenderness — toward a parent I loved, and toward the girl inside me who learned it was safer to stay quiet than to talk about what was really happening.
At the Thanksgiving Table
That night, Dad didn’t join us for dinner at his cousin’s house, despite my encouragement. He stayed home on the porch, drinking.
The table was bright. Food everywhere. Family laughing.
After a few glasses of wine, my mom looked at me and said:
“I’m a great mom, aren’t I, Bonnie?”
Forks stopped moving.
I froze.
“Oh, what a spoil sport,” she said, waving a hand in front of my face.
My sister said, in a cheerleader voice:
“You’re the best mom ever!”
She leaned in and hugged her.
My face burned.
Later, alone in the Airbnb, I lay in bed and thought about how many years I had tried to manage my mom’s feelings. And how this year, I had done something different.
I took care of myself.
Not perfectly.
Not without discomfort.
But enough.
It had taken a couple of calls to my mentor for me to give myself permission to prioritize my needs before searching for an Airbnb. She helped me see that honoring myself and having boundaries wasn’t being unkind to my family.
Reparenting During the Holidays Can Look Like…
• leaving early
• staying in an Airbnb
• calling a friend before you arrive
• having a bathroom door
• saying, “I love you, and I need to do things differently this year”
Reparenting offers a different possibility: I love you, and I need to take care of myself. Both can be true.
It’s not about distance. It’s about connection to yourself.
That connection makes it easier to stay connected to others — without abandoning yourself. Not pushing past the physical sensations that your inner family uses to tell you, “This is enough.”
But knowing this intellectually wasn’t enough. My inner family needed to see it, again and again.
What My Inner Family Needed to See
If parts of you don’t see these options as realistic or safe, that’s understandable. Many of us didn’t grow up with models for this. It can take time and support for our inner family to trust that we’ll be there for ourselves, no matter how others respond.
This is what my inner family needed to see over time. Not just reassurance, but proof:
• that I would leave when my body said, “this is enough”
• that I would say no when that was true for me, even if someone was disappointed
• that I would care about my family’s needs without overriding my own
• that I would listen, nurture, and protect them, especially when there was pushback or discomfort
Over time, those choices taught them something words alone couldn’t:
I meant it.
I was coming back for them.
That isn’t abandoning your family.
It’s learning to be a reliable inner parent.
Reflection Prompt
As this season unfolds, whether you’re with family, chosen family, or on your own, you might gently ask:
What part(s) of me needs support over the holidays?
What can I do to keep them safe and help them know they matter?
What would this holiday season look like if I treated myself as someone I deeply care about?