When Family, Forgiveness, and Christmas Ask Too Much

A reflection on no contact, protection, and choosing peace

As Christmas approaches, I’ve been thinking about family — and about the expectations that quietly come with this season.

I recently came across a clip online where the topic of adult children choosing to go no contact with their parents was being discussed. The responses were divided, but familiar. Some believed forgiveness should always be the goal, no matter what has happened. Others questioned what forgiveness actually costs the person being asked to give it.

I wasn’t interested in resolving the debate or taking sides. What stayed with me instead was a deeper, often unspoken question:

What does it cost people to keep the peace?

When This Conversation Is Personal

For me, this isn’t abstract.

I am no contact with some of my family. The decision wasn’t impulsive or dramatic. It was slow, painful, and shaped by years of trying to find a place for myself within a family structure that could not — or would not — hold me safely.

Speaking up meant being labelled difficult. Refusing to stay silent meant becoming the black sheep. And eventually, I had to choose between maintaining access and maintaining myself.

I chose my peace.

That choice, however, comes with grief. And during the holidays, that grief feels sharper.

The Pressure to Perform Togetherness

Christmas has a way of amplifying expectations. It assumes reconciliation. It assumes togetherness. It assumes that love looks like endurance — that if we smile, forgive, and try a little harder, everything will somehow resolve itself.

But what if it doesn’t?

What if staying means shrinking? What if forgiveness, as it’s being asked of you, requires you to abandon your own truth? What if the cost of harmony is your sense of self?

These are questions many people are quietly asking — especially adults who have chosen distance from parents, siblings, or wider family members. Not because they wanted to walk away, but because staying became unsustainable.

When Respect Is Conditional

Within many African family structures, this conversation becomes even more complex.

No matter how old you are, adulthood can feel conditional. Your voice may carry less weight simply because someone else is older. Decisions are made about you rather than with you. Harm is minimised in the name of respect. Silence is praised as maturity. And questioning long-held norms is framed as disrespect rather than discernment.

In these systems, forgiveness is often expected without accountability. Reconciliation is prioritised over repair. And those who speak up are encouraged — directly or indirectly — to make themselves smaller for the sake of peace.

What’s rarely acknowledged is what forgiveness costs the person being asked to give it — especially when there has been no apology, no reflection, and no meaningful change.

In those moments, forgiveness can quietly become another form of self-abandonment.

Reframing No Contact

This is why I want to reframe no contact — not as punishment, but as protection.

For many people, it isn’t about cutting others off. It’s about putting the weapons down. About stepping away from battles that were never fair. About recognising that continuing to fight for something that has never existed in a safe or nurturing way only deepens the wound.

And yet, walking away is not easy.

Especially at Christmas. Especially when you don’t yet have a chosen family to soften the loneliness. Especially when the world seems full of images of warmth, laughter, and belonging.

Choosing yourself can feel like failure when everyone else appears to be choosing togetherness.

But I keep returning to this question:

What if walking away is not a failure of love, but an act of self-respect?

Permission, Not Answers

If you’re navigating complicated family dynamics this season, I don’t have solutions — only permission.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is stop fighting for what has never held us. To grieve what wasn’t. To accept what is. And to walk forward without armour.

I learned that the hard way.

If this season feels heavy for you, please know this: you are not alone — even when it feels that way. And choosing yourself is not something you ever need to apologise for.

Invitation to Reflect

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• What beliefs about family are you questioning this season?
• What does protection look like for you right now?
• Where might peace require change rather than endurance?

Feel free to share in the comments. Change begins when we allow ourselves to think differently — together.