The Thanksgiving I Set a Boundary Between the Stuffing and the Unsolicited Advice.
from the Wilde Files
So. The holidays are coming.
And you’re single.
Cool. Cool. Cool cool cool.
Welcome to the most wonderful time of the year, where your family gets together to demonstrate every pattern you’ve spent years trying to unlearn, all while passing the mashed potatoes and pretending this is normal.
Let me guess what’s happening right now.
It’s 5 AM. You’re lying in bed doing that fun thing where you catastrophize about conversations that haven’t happened yet. You’re practicing responses to questions nobody’s asked. You’re workshopping your tone.
“Yes. Still single.” Too defensive?
“Yep! Just me!” Too cheerful?
“Actually, I’m in a deeply committed relationship with my own self-respect.” Too weird?
You’ve been rehearsing this since October. You’ve got three variations of every answer saved in your Notes app. You’ve stress-tested them against every possible follow-up question with ChatGPT. You’ve run simulations. You are prepared for a holiday dinner the way NASA is prepared for a shuttle launch.
Last Thanksgiving, I drove to my parents’ house with a game plan. I had boundaries. I had practiced my exits. I had a fully charged phone, a best friend on standby, and the emotional armor of a woman who has been in therapy long enough to identify a guilt trip before it lands.
I lasted eleven minutes.
Eleven minutes before my mom cornered me in the kitchen, lowered her voice to that pitch that means she’s about to say something devastating while pretending to care about your feelings, and said:
“Sweetie. Are you okay? I’m just worried about you. You seem so… different lately.”
(Translation: You used to do whatever I wanted without complaining. I miss that version of you. Can you go back to being her? She was much more convenient.)
I could feel it happening. The old software trying to boot up. The part of me that wants to say “No, Mom, I’m fine, everything’s great, I’m sorry, what can I help with, do you need me to set the table, should I apologize for existing, what temperature would you like my personality set to?”
But I didn’t say that. I said, “I’m good, Mom. Really good, actually.”
She did that thing where she smiles but her eyes don’t agree. “Well. If you say so.”
She said “if you say so” the way a detective says “interesting” when they already think you did it.
Dinner started fine. Fine in the way a nature documentary starts fine before the gazelle realizes she’s surrounded.
I was seated between my grandmother, who has never once in her life met a boundary she respected, and my sister’s boyfriend Brandon, who has been “going through a lot” for the entire three years I’ve known him. Brandon’s main contribution to family events is sitting there. He sits with great commitment. Champion-level sitting. If sitting were a career, Brandon would be in high demand.
My grandmother opened with her signature move before the turkey was even carved.
“So, Ares. Still single?”
“Still single, Grandma.”
“You know, in my day, women didn’t stay single this long. I had three children by your age.”
“Different times, Grandma.”
“You’re too picky. That’s your problem. Men don’t like women who are too independent.”
(Grandma married at 17 to escape her parents’ house. She stayed for fifty-seven years because she thought she had to. She is not the person to take dating advice from, but she delivers it with the confidence of someone who has never once Googled “is this normal” at 2 AM, and I almost respect it.)
I smiled. I nodded. I shoveled stuffing into my mouth so I wouldn’t say the thing I was thinking, which was: Grandma, independence isn’t a flaw. It’s the reason I’m not currently sitting next to MY version of Brandon.
Speaking of Brandon. My sister Jess chose this moment to perform her annual one-woman show, “Me Me Me Me Me.”
“You know, I actually manifested Brandon. I wrote down exactly what I wanted and the universe delivered. You should try it! I could help you with your list. I’m really good at it, obviously…right babe?”
Brandon looked up from his phone briefly. Like a deer hearing a branch snap. Then went back to whatever he was doing. Surely not looking at other deer.
I swallowed hard, “I’m glad you’re happy, Jess.”
“I am happy.” She said with a flirty micro dance…
Nobody at the table believed her. Including her.
Here’s where it got interesting.
My Aunt Linda, three wines deep and fully operational, leaned across the table with that energy that means she’s about to fire a heat-seeking missile disguised as concern.
“You know what I think your problem is, sweetheart? You overthink everything. All those books and writing. You analyze everything to death. Sometimes you just have to let things happen naturally. Stop being so… picky.”
(This is the same woman who has been in a marriage she describes as “fine” for twenty-two years and whose idea of emotional intimacy is watching the same TV show in the same room. But sure, Linda. Ok.)
And this is the moment. This is the moment I felt it. Not anger. Not even frustration.
Just… clarity.
I have been sitting at this table, at variations of this table, for my entire life. Absorbing advice I didn’t ask for. Deflecting. Performing the version of me that makes everyone else comfortable. Laughing at things that aren’t funny. Saying “no worries” when, girl, there were MANY worries. Shrinking myself down to the size of whatever box they needed me to fit in so nobody had to feel uncomfortable.
And every year, I drove home with that sick feeling. That one where you know you abandoned yourself for three hours and vowed never again.
Not this time.
I put my fork down.
“I appreciate that you’re all concerned about me. I do. But I’m going to be honest with you because that’s what I’m trying to do more of, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
The table got quiet. Brandon looked up again. Two deer sightings in one dinner. Unprecedented.
“I’m single because I’d rather be alone than in a relationship where I have to pretend I’m someone I’m not. And I have boundaries now because I spent most of my twenties not having any, and it almost broke me.”
I took a breath.
“I love you all. But my relationship status is not a problem that needs solving from this table. And that isn’t something I’m going to apologize for. Even if it makes dinner a little awkward.”
Silence.
My grandmother blinked. My mom’s smile tightened. Aunt Linda took a very long sip of wine. Jess looked at Brandon. Brandon was already back on his phone.
And then my dad, who had not spoken a single word during any of this because emotional conversations make him want to build a shed, cleared his throat and said:
“Anyone want more turkey?”
(God bless you, Dad. Your emotional range is a teaspoon but your timing is impeccable.)
I left at 6:30. Not because I was running away. Because I was done. Not angry-done. Just… done. The way you’re done with a meal that was fine but you don’t need another plate.
On the way out, I stopped to pet the dog. The dog, who had been lying under the table the entire time, not judging anyone, not asking about anyone’s relationship status, not offering unsolicited advice about anyone’s life choices. Just chilling.
I knelt down and scratched behind his ears. He leaned into it.
“You get it,” I whispered. “You’re the only one here who gets it.”
The dog wagged his tail. Which is more emotional validation than I got from any human at that table.
I drove home in silence. No podcast. No music. Just me and the quiet and the absence of that sick feeling for the first time after a family dinner in years. Because I hadn’t abandoned myself. I’d said the thing. Not perfectly. Not wrapped in a bow. Not rehearsed from my Notes app. Just the truth, delivered at a dinner table between the turkey and the passive aggression.
It didn’t fix anything. Grandma will still ask next year. Mom will still worry in that way that feels like a leash. Jess will still do whatever it is that Jess is doing. Aunt Linda will still think I’m too much.
I’m thinking about a holiday cruise to the Bahamas next year…
Your family’s discomfort with your growth is not evidence that you’re doing something wrong. It’s evidence that you’re doing something different. And different is threatening to people who need you to stay the same so the damn boat doesnt get rocked.
You don’t have to catch every piece of shame they sling at you. You can let it land on the floor. You can step over it. You can pet the dog instead.
It’ll be awkward. It’ll be uncomfortable.
Suffering is optional, babe.
xoxo, Ares
P.S. The dog’s name is Chester. Chester and I have a real connection. He didn’t ask me once about my love life, my eggs, or my five-year plan. I love him.
P.P.S. I texted Jess when I got home. Told her I love her and I’m always here if she needs me. She replied with a heart emoji. Baby steps.
