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This year I celebrated Thanksgiving with my mom for the first time in over a decade. After years of graduate school on the other side of the country, a career stint in Washington, D.C., followed by the danger and difficulties of the pandemic keeping us separate for the last couple Novembers, my wife and I finally hosted my mother at our home. We were joined by my sister, who, due to her own perilous journey trying to get a spousal visa to join her husband in the UK in the midst of a pandemic, has also been our roommate for the last few years.

We cooked together at a leisurely pace all day and enjoyed a delicious feast just as the sun was setting. It was the smallest Thanksgiving of my life: Four ladies, a sumptuous, no-fuss roast chicken, and a few simple sides we couldn’t live without.

As we all put our feet up after dessert (one store bought, two made over the course of a couple days prior), my mom let out a deep sigh: “I love doing holidays with you all! It’s so relaxed! So different from the stress of it all!”

It was true. This was totally different from the Thanksgivings I’d spent with her in my youth. Picture it: a family of six rushing out the door in the morning hours, multiple foil-covered dishes balanced on our laps, in order to make it on time to my maternal grandmother’s early lunch. After lunch, my mom would lead dishes and clean-up, so we could, in turn, get to my paternal grandparents’ house at a decent hour for pie and board games with the other side of the family. Those days came with their own magic, of course—the kind that comes from eating and talking and playing with a sprawling extended family—that I’ll likely never be able to replicate, even as I have my own kids.

But they were also Thanksgivings of marked and memorable stress. Particularly for my mother. An early wake-up call, followed by orders shouted from frantic parents who were cooking and cleaning, while trying to get the kids into holiday-appropriate attire. “Breakfast! You need to eat now or there won’t be time until lunch!” “Not a t-shirt. Put on that sweater I just bought you.” “Honey, can you grab that pie? Keep it balanced!” “Car is leaving in ten minutes! We are already late!” Then a tight schedule to make sure we stayed on track and saw everyone we were supposed to see in the course of one short, early winter’s day.

“Maybe,” my mom considered, as she relaxed in front of my fireplace this year, “all that stress was just imposed by me anyway.”

Sure, she’d had some say in the packed schedule and the stringency with which she expected us to adhere to it. But, my sister and I assured her, that assessment wasn’t right.

The stress had no more been imposed by her as it had been a large and loving family who wanted to spend time with us on the major holidays; by my dad who was less dedicated to the Thanksgiving traditions and had a penchant for refusing to jump in the shower or shave more than fifteen minutes before departure time; by us kids, who truly loved the holiday and the people and dishes it brought our way; or, let’s face it, by a society that consistently tells mothers that navigating this kind of holiday intensity is expected of them.

Women, especially mothers, are our culture’s magic makers. From Halloween to New Years Day, moms attempt to transform themselves into elves of merriment, pulling gourmet dishes out of their hats, curating family outfits and aesthetics to mark the special days and nights for their social media feeds, and dazzling their children, partners, and extended kin with joy, smiles and fun. All this despite the fact that today’s mothers are also than any generation before and still doing significantly. It’s no wonder a season meant to mark peace and joy is now also marked by a on how to handle the holiday stress.

Who’s to say what could have been, how much my mom would do differently now if she were still a mom of four young kids, or how different Thanksgiving at my own house would be if I had a large family and nearby relatives to visit?

As I head into a new chapter of my own life—I will soon become a mother and I once again live within driving distance of my extended family—what I’m taking from that lovely Thanksgiving at home this year and my mom’s delight in its pace is simple: despite those many pressures, we do have agency to create the kind of Holiday experience we want, and the sooner we recognize that, the better.

A tumultuous few years of pandemic life have taught many of us that once sacred holiday traditions and what they entail is in flux, and that’s okay. For better or for worse, any holiday scripts we once adhered to were probably tossed out in 2020. After all we’ve been through, it’s only right to ask: what do we truly want these special days to feel like? To include? To accomplish?

We have the agency to decide what we value most about a holiday. And we can cope with, adapt to, or reject the stress that comes with them—not just based on our tolerance levels and grit, or the number of people counting on us or expecting us, but according to our own values, wants, and needs.

This holiday season, I wish for recognition of that holiday agency in every burnt out parent, kid, or person who needs it. After everything we’ve been through, what good are gifts, the feasts, and meet-ups, if we are too stressed out to enjoy them?