The holidays do something strange to my chest.
One minute I’m fine — wrapping chocolates, sending cards, pretending I’m organized — and the next minute I’m standing in my kitchen doing emotional math I never signed up for.
Who gets what. Who expects what. Who notices. Who never does.
This year, I sent cards. Same card, same message. Friends, coworkers, family. Easy. Civilized. Very peace on earth.
What I didn’t do was tuck money into a card for an adult who has quietly come to expect it.
And that’s when guilt tried to knock.
Which is strange, because my own kids — the ones I raised — don’t receive money from me anymore. Not because I don’t love them. But because immigration rearranges love into logistics.
For immigrants, Christmas doesn’t start in December. It starts in September — when you panic‑ship a balikbayan box. A giant cardboard love letter stuffed with shoes, clothes, canned goods, chocolates, and everything else that says I’m still your mom, even from far away.
Miss the shipping deadline and suddenly you’re sending cash again, hoping it turns into something for Noche Buena — the Christmas Eve feast — and Media Noche, the New Year’s Eve dinner meant to invite abundance into the coming year.
(Yes, we plan abundance with food. It makes perfect sense.)
Meanwhile, here in the U.S., the holidays come with a different kind of pressure.
Unspoken expectations. Silences that feel louder than words. And the strange position of being a stepmother, step grandma — caring deeply while knowing you’re never quite centered in the picture.
That’s where the patterns show up.
I’ve been married to my husband for years. Long enough to notice habits. Long enough that gifts — or the absence of them — stop feeling like coincidences.
Over that entire time, gestures from certain adults in our orbit have been rare enough to remember individually.
I received exactly one memorable gift: matching onesies. His dad? Not many more gestures than that.
Mine was enormous. Ordered‑for‑a‑different‑human enormous. Which wcas especially confusing because I was slimmer back then. Five kids later, sure — but still. Sir. What was the vision?
(I laugh‑snorted when I opened it. Then cried later. As one does.)
When certain visits happen, meals are expected to appear. All meals included. My husband cooks. My husband cleans.
And that’s the part that gets me.
Not the money. Not the gifts. The effort.
Because here’s the contrast no one likes to talk about:
My kids are all adults now, with steady, hard‑earned jobs of their own. And even when they’re terrible in the kitchen, they try.
They help. They clean up. They show effort.
They don’t have much money — but they still give anyway.
Because effort isn’t about income. It’s about intention.
This year, I chose something different.
Cards. Chocolates. Cash only where it made sense — for children, quietly, without ceremony.
No explanations. No announcements. Just boundaries wrapped in politeness.
And I realized something uncomfortable but freeing:
Some people grow used to receiving. Others grow used to giving — even when it costs them more than money.
Both can exist. But I don’t have to scramble to make them equal.
If you’re a stepmom or step grandma quietly swallowing resentment, or an immigrant deciding whether to ship the box or send the money, or someone trying to keep the peace while your feelings sit in the corner doing mental spreadsheets —
You’re not cold. You’re not selfish. You’re just done over‑giving.
Sometimes the most loving thing we do is stop performing generosity and start practicing boundaries.
And maybe — just maybe — let the math be honest this year.
(And yes. Laughing helps. Snort optional.)
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