Not This Year — And I Mean It

You ever get to that point where “hosting” starts to feel like a job you didn’t apply for, with no paycheck and way too much emotional overtime?

Yeah. That’s me. Every year.

The faces change. The menu shifts. But the expectation? That stays the same. Somehow, we’re always the ones who host — which apparently means we fund it, prep it, cook it (well, he cooks it — and he is really amazing), serve it, clean it, and smile through it while people show up empty-handed and full of opinions. They sit around talking about themselves over stuffing like it’s a TED Talk. (Stuffing is divine, by the way. His recipe. I’ll share it if you ask nicely.)

It’s not even the work that drains me anymore. It’s the assumption. That we’ll do it. That we’re available. That we’re the reliable ones.

And that word — available — I’ve started to hate it.

Because what it really means is:

• You don’t get to have plans.

• You don’t get to have boundaries.

• You don’t get to say no — not without being called selfish, dramatic, ungrateful, or my personal favorite: “different now.”

Different? You mean healed?

I haven’t had a real holiday with my kids in years. The kind where the food doesn’t match but the love is loud. Where baked salmon with cream cheese topping and lasagna somehow share a table and we critique each other’s dishes like it’s Top Chef: Dysfunctional Family Edition. Where no one’s keeping score — we’re just together. Tossing Welch’s sparkling grape juice like it’s champagne and laughing when someone spills it.

But every time we talk about doing something for us — maybe traveling, maybe seeing my side for once — here comes the guilt parade.

“Oh, but you can’t. What about me?” Excuse me, gurl… we asked you several times and you said no each time. Now that your favorite wants to be present, you want us to rearrange everything? And now you’re saying you thought we didn’t like you around, so you kept saying no — but now that he’ll show up, we have to say yes? First of all, I’m really not liking you more each day. And now? You’re really getting worse.

“Oh, but he’s coming to visit.” And so?

“Oh, but we’ve always done it this way.” Well, not this year. And other holidays? They’re now up for approval from me — because I need time with my own too. On our own terms.

I see how they use him. I see how they lean on his kindness, his guilt, his “but they’re family” heart. They know he’ll show up. They know he’ll fix it, fund it, drive it, cook it, forgive it. They make him feel so bad — talk about mega ultra guilt tripping. Using age. Using blood ties. Using every emotional coupon they’ve ever clipped.

And me? I’m invisible. I don’t count.

I watch it happen — again and again — like a play I didn’t audition for but somehow keep starring in.

They call when they need something. Ignore him when they don’t. And when the holidays roll around? Poof. They reappear. Demanding everything, offering nothing. Gah — won’t even cook him a simple breakfast.

He still says, “Maybe they’ll change.”

But they won’t. Because why would they, when it’s so easy to just keep taking?

And why am I always the villain in his eyes when I call it out?

Sometimes I wonder about her — does she think she gave birth to her grandson and not her son?

Because the way she treats him… it’s like the son disappeared and the grandson became the center of gravity. Like she’s raising him all over again, but this time with guilt and favoritism instead of love.

And that grandson? Sweet on the surface, scheming underneath. Always circling the idea of money — not earned, just expected. He moves through life like it’s all owed to him. Thinks his dad’s money isn’t mine. Thinks kindness is weakness. Thinks manipulation is love.

Insert “man-child” by Sabrina Carpenter on cue — because wow, if the shoe fits, it’s orthopedic and still too tight.

It’s wild — not because he’s young and figuring things out. He’s not. He’s grown (like mid life old). And that’s what makes it so disappointing. He should know better. But instead, he plays the game like it’s second nature — and the adults around him keep letting him win.

And me? I’m a grandma too. But I love my kids. And I will not sacrifice them for my grandsons. Not for entitlement. Not for manipulation. Not for some twisted version of legacy that forgets who actually showed up.

Growing up Filipina, I was taught utang na loob — debt of gratitude — like it was sacred scripture. You owed the people who raised you, no matter what they did or didn’t do. And if you ever questioned it? You were walanghiya — shameless, ungrateful, bad.

And I was taught to respect my elders. But sometimes? Elders don’t act like they should be respected. I just react accordingly now.

But here’s what I’ve learned after living long enough to see drama across continents: It’s not just us. Every culture has its own version of emotional guilt dressed up as family love.

Because people are people — Same drama, different accent.

In some cultures, it’s called utang na loob. In others, it’s just “family duty.” Different words, same weight: If you say no, you’re ungrateful. If you set boundaries, you’re selfish.

But I’m not just surviving the drama anymore.

Because no matter where we come from — Filipino, American, or anywhere in between — We all deserve to live lives that aren’t defined by guilt. We can honor our families, love them fiercely, and still draw a line in the sand.

We are generous. We love to entertain. We love to make meals for others. But if you’re just using him — even if you’re my own blood — that’s when I go full attack mode. We joke that I’m his attack dog. But now? I can’t attack. Because it’s his only family.

So I write.

Am I the only one in this situation? I hate when they make him feel bad. Love in marriage is sometimes occasional (LOL), but my loyalty? It’s solid. Him, my kids, my grandkids, then their partners — in that order. I will unapologetically write about this. And if there’s a lesson here, I hope it lands.

I forgive fast. I really do. Just don’t abuse it too much — my brake pads are thinning.

So this year? We’re doing it different.

If the table’s smaller, so be it. If it’s takeout instead of turkey, fine. If “together” looks less polished but more peaceful — perfect.

Because peace is the only thing I want seconds of this Thanksgiving.

And if you’re reading this, dreading another round of obligation dinners and emotional gymnastics — I see you.

You’re not ungrateful. You’re just tired. You’re learning to save some of that kindness for yourself.

Let the guilt calls go to voicemail. Let someone else defrost the turkey. You’ve done enough.

Because being needed isn’t the same as being valued.

And if your presence is only appreciated when it comes with service — that’s not family. That’s customer service.

🦃P.S. If you’re skipping the drama this year — choosing peace, travel, or even a solo Netflix-and-leftovers holiday — cheers to you. It doesn’t mean you don’t care. It means you finally learned what caring for yourself looks like. 💛