Lessons from Meltdowns of Christmas Past

What I’ve learned from losing my shit year after year.

Welcome to this tiny corner of the internet where an off-duty psychotherapist keeps the conversation going on how to make sense of this life thing we’re all doing. If you ever wondered what your therapist does off the clock—which, who among us hasn’t?—this is like that. Think of it as the adult equivalent of seeing your elementary school teacher at the grocery store picking out lemons. 🍋

One thing before we jump in, I show up very much as myself here. Myself first, and all my other labels are secondary. If a therapist speaking candidly feels like too much to your system, that is absolutely is OK and this may not be the best particular newsletter for you.

I’m going to be honest with you from the jump. A part of me feels shame about what I’m going to share with you today. I want so badly to be different than I am about this issue. The key marker shame is at the wheel: I want to change myself rather than meet myself where I’m at and see what I need.

The thing I’m stalling on saying by giving that disclaimer is the abject panic I feel when I have long stretches without childcare. I felt this acutely during the first several months of my son’s life. Now, even a long weekend can send me spiraling. I mean, lord help me once he’s in school and there are summer breaks to contend with. But right now, the pièce de résistance of this experience is the holidays.

There is something about that wide open expanse where it’s mostly just me that causes a profound sense of dread and loneliness. Then if you add on all the additional demand that comes with the holidays–coming up with gift ideas, getting said gifts, gifts for teachers, wrapping said gifts, decorating, get-togethers where I need to organize childcare and remember how to speak to people who aren’t my clients or my family, additional events at school, travel, just to name a few 🫠–it feels less like a delicate falling of snow and more of an avalanche heading right for me.

just your average text conversation with my husband this time of year

I’m keenly aware some of the panic around childcare is about how much I struggled in early postpartum. A prolonged state of sleep deprivation, isolation, over-functioning for seemingly everyone else but myself. I start to fear I’ll go back to how I felt then: drowning while everyone else looks on and shrugs from the shore, “What else did you expect?”

The weird thing is that this panic has nothing to do with how I feel toward my son. I love him, obviously. He’s so fun and sweet and wild and entertaining. He is one of my favorite people on this planet. It’s more self-involved than that (complimentary).

I’m not afraid to be with him–although it really can feel that way sometimes. I’m afraid to be with myself. Which as a mostly introverted person this is BREAKING NEWS. I typically love being with myself. It was humbling to realize this is only when I can control most of the variables and keep the risk of failure minimal.