Stop Hoping Your Family Will Change
What gay men need to know about tolerance vs. belonging this Christmas.
Your dad asks if you’re seeing anyone. Standard question. You’ve answered it thirty times this year, most of them honestly.
But something happens in your childhood kitchen. Your throat tightens. You edit in real-time. The guy you’ve been dating for four months becomes “someone.” The weekend you spent at his family’s place gets cropped to “been busy.” Your voice drops half an octave without permission.
Everyone (occasionally myself) is writing about nervous system regulation. About how your body remembers old threats. About polyvagal responses and how to stay grounded when family triggers you.
But that’s not the problem.
The problem is you keep returning to rooms where the version of you that’s welcome is the one who edits himself into something easier to love. And somewhere underneath the therapy language about boundaries and nervous systems, you’re still hoping this year might be different.
The Three Versions Nobody Wants to Name
You know the typology. The Diplomat who smooths everything over. The Achiever who offers accomplishments as evidence they turned out fine. The Truth-Teller who names what everyone pretends not to see, then spends the drive home wondering if they just ruined Christmas.
Here’s what these three versions have in common: They’re all still auditioning. Still performing different strategies for the same goal: get them to see you. Get them to stop requiring the edited version. Get them to love the person who actually exists.
The Diplomat thinks if they keep the peace long enough, eventually there’ll be room for truth. The Achiever thinks if they’re successful enough, their queerness will become forgivable. The Truth-Teller thinks if they just explain it correctly this time, something will click.
They’re all wrong.
Not because their families are monsters. Most of your families are perfectly nice people who would be horrified to know they’re asking you to shrink. They think they’re being accepting. They changed the pronouns. They asked about your “friend.” They’re trying.
And that’s what makes it so much worse.
Because you can’t fight acceptance. You can’t set a boundary against tolerance. You can’t explain to someone that their willingness to have you at Christmas if you stay quiet about the parts they find uncomfortable isn’t actually love. It’s a transaction.
What Your Body Already Knows
Your nervous system isn’t broken. It’s not overreacting. It’s giving you accurate information that your cognitive story won’t let you process.
The throat tightening when your dad asks about your love life? That’s not trauma. That’s pattern recognition. Your body is telling you: This person doesn’t actually want to know. They want the answer that doesn’t make them uncomfortable.
The monitoring of your wrist movement, the dropped voice, the careful pronoun work? That’s not regression to childhood coping. That’s your adult self recognizing in real-time that the cost of being fully present here is too high.
One client keeps his keys in his pocket during family dinners. “Just knowing I can leave makes it easier to stay.” He thought this was a coping strategy. I think it’s his body trying to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.
The Question Nobody’s Asking
Every article about queer people and the holidays offers the same framework: Here’s why it’s hard. Here’s how to cope. Here’s how to set boundaries. Here’s how to survive it.
But nobody’s asking: Why are you going?
And before you answer with “because they’re family” or “because Christmas matters” or “because I only see them once a year,” sit with this: What are you hoping to get from people who’ve shown you, year after year, that they can’t give it?
Your sister who “forgets” your partner’s name isn’t going to suddenly remember. Your uncle who makes jokes isn’t going to suddenly get why they’re not funny. Your mother who says she’s proud of you then talks about her friend’s son who “isn’t like that” isn’t going to have an epiphany on December 25th.
The version of them you keep hoping will show up doesn’t exist. And the version of you they want at their table isn’t the one who deserves to be there.
The Real Grief
Therapy teaches us to name our feelings. To set boundaries. To communicate our needs clearly. To regulate our nervous systems.
But sometimes, traditional therapy rarely addresses the harder question: What do you do when you’ve communicated clearly, set boundaries consistently, regulated your nervous system successfully, and the fundamental problem hasn’t changed?
You’re not grieving the family that rejected you. Most of you got through that years ago.
You’re grieving the family that accepts you conditionally. That wants you there but wants you smaller. That loves the story of your life more than the life you’re actually living.
And the regression you experience at Christmas isn’t you backsliding. It’s your body refusing to pretend that distinction doesn’t matter.
What Nobody Wants to Hear
Maybe the Christmas version of you isn’t the problem. Maybe your family is.
Maybe the goal isn’t to figure out how to stay regulated in spaces that require your diminishment. Maybe the goal is to stop going to those spaces.
Maybe “but they’re family” is a reason to grieve harder, not a reason to keep performing.
The most uncomfortable truth about chosen family isn’t that we need it. It’s that we need it instead. Not in addition to. Not as supplement. As replacement for people who proved they couldn’t do the job.
This Christmas, some of you will set perfect boundaries. Use all the right scripts. Stay remarkably calm. Leave early, arrive late, take strategic breaks.
And it still won’t be enough. Because the problem was never your regulation. It was their requirement.
Happy holidays,
Gino xx
P.S. This letter won’t reflect everyone’s family experience. Some of you have families who genuinely see you, who don’t require the edited version. But for the readers who message me describing the throat-tightening, the strategic silence, the drive home wondering if it’s worth it, this is for you.
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All client examples in this piece are composites drawn from years of clinical work with gay men. Details have been altered to protect confidentiality. No single story represents an individual person.
This newsletter is for educational and informational purposes only. It does not replace therapy, diagnose, treat, or prevent any condition.
Thank you Gino. After coming out, I played many roles when I returned home for holidays or other times. Then I got tired of it. Tired of the games and the masks and the discomfort. Going back to a homophobic and racist family didn't work for me anymore. I just stopped going. I would only return home at times the whole family wasn't there (2 brothers and 2 sisters). So it's been 32 years since I've spent holidays with my family. My father is dead. My mother is in hospice. And my siblings have their own families, and I have mine: my husband, my cats, and my chosen friends. And that works for me. I stopped hoping long ago that they would change. But I am infinitely grateful that I have. And I am still changing. Thank you Gino, your insight on so many issues helps me get closer to being the person I want to be. xxoo I wish you a wonderful. holiday season and peaceful and calming new year. --Mike
This column will help many of my brothers and sisters cope with what for many of us is the most difficult and unpleasant time of the entire year. Thank you for making such a beautiful and helpful contribution to all of us.
My own situation isn't nearly as toxic as it used to be in the past, and yet every year there seems to be a dark cloud hovering near me waiting, threatening, reminding me that even though things are going well there will always be a strong desire to simply disappear until January 2.
This year I've taken ill for several days and used my illness as a good excuse to disappear for a while. I've been wondering why this is still such a difficult time of year for me even though my current situation is relatively benign. After reading your column, however, I've come to understand that the echoes of a painful past will always be present. And that is fine. And so, I will do whatever it takes to take care of myself and to respect, embrace, and love the darkness because it will always remind me to keep myself safe, no matter what that might mean.
My favorite hymn every December speaks to my hurting and wounded inner child. "O Come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear." It helps me get through the weeks.
Thank you again.