It’s early in the morning and I’m the only one awake in my mom’s place. I’m lying on the couch fighting fatigue, while my dog, haven given in long ago, lies at my feet. The apartment is packed with people sleeping comforted by family an arms reach away. It’s a good feeling. It’s strange.

Family isn’t always what we want it to be. Christmas time was always a season when I longed for that movie-perfect Christmas experience, but the differences between my parents (pre- and post- divorce), my mom and half-sisters, myself and my father, all created a very unwelcoming environment during the holidays, to say the least. I usually ended up spending as little time as possible at home.

After I left for college things started to change. Rather, we made them change. I bridged the gap between my sisters and my mom, and they discovered that they really liked each other after all. From there we joined with my brother-in-law and his parents, then reached out to extended family. I’d always made my friends my family, bringing them into my life and celebrating holidays with them. Now I was making my actual family my family.

As we were eating Christmas dinner last year, my sister said how happy she was that we were really being a family for the first time. I don’t think that really hit me until just now, because this year it isn’t something new anymore. It’s something better. It simply is.