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Updated: May 4, 2020
Originally Published: Dec. 23, 2019
I don’t bake Christmas cookies with my children. It’s not that I don’t have the desire—I adore cookies, enjoy cooking, and, of course, cherish my kids. You’d think those ingredients would create the perfect recipe for a joyful time together. However, when I step into the kitchen to bake, my heart races and I struggle to catch my breath. I find myself moving at lightning speed, eager to finish the task while offering myself a pep talk to stay grounded: “I’m okay. This is fine. I can handle it.” The anxiety doesn’t subside until the last cookie is out of the oven and the kitchen is spotless. The urgency comes from a relentless need to clean up immediately, handwashing all those dishes, even though I own a perfectly functional dishwasher. Everything must return to its original state.
You see, if I don’t get it done, the voice in my head that resembles my mother will rise up, judging me harshly. She may live hundreds of miles away, but that inner critic is very much alive. It’s the voice that critiques my every move, echoing everything I’ve ever done wrong.
When I was fourteen, my mother decided we should make Christmas cookies together—those delightful, shaped cookies that we would decorate with frosting and sprinkles. We had a charming assortment of cookie cutters passed down through generations. It should have been a lovely way to spend an afternoon in December.
But for me, it was a nightmare wrapped in flour and sugar. I dreaded the process, which was everything she abhorred—messes, cooking, and me. Her iconic sighs of disapproval filled the room, cutting deeper than any harsh words could. Hours would pass, and I’d emerge a bundle of nerves, exhausted and with cookies that nobody wanted to eat until they were stale and sad.
That year, I firmly said no. I refused to participate, opting instead to retreat to my room with a book. You’d have thought I’d committed a grave crime. My mother quickly enlisted my father’s help, and the two cornered me. My father called me an ungrateful brat, and I felt the heat of rebellion surge through me—no more spanking! I was fourteen, after all. As my father advanced, I instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, employing the blocks I’d learned in karate class. It felt empowering for a moment, until the reality of being overpowered by two adults set in.
They dragged me out of the house and locked the door behind me. “Come back when you’re ready to act like an adult,” they said, leaving me barefoot and coatless on the front stoop. I stood there, initially shocked, but soon the survival instinct kicked in. I dashed to the back of the house and slipped inside just long enough to grab my shoes.
I walked through the yards of several neighbors and found refuge with a college student named Mia, who had babysat for us in the past. She and her mother listened to my story, but ultimately sent me home, telling me to be patient. I was grateful for their sympathy, but deep down, I knew nothing would change.
When I returned home, my parents remained silent. I retreated to my room, where I later learned my punishment was to miss performing with the church choir for Christmas Mass. I protested, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. It was just the way things were.
On Christmas Day, I sat in the pew, watching the choir perform without me, fighting back tears. My father later praised me for bearing my punishment with “Christ-like dignity.” I wish I’d had the courage to ask him what that made him.
So, no, I don’t bake Christmas cookies with my kids. Not now, not yet. And that hurts. I feel guilty, especially since this year has been particularly challenging. My mental health struggles have left me sidelined, preventing me from the singing gigs I usually enjoy during this festive time. Without those distractions, I’m left confronting the real reason I avoid baking—those painful memories.
I long to create joyful moments baking cookies with my children, to embrace the mess and laughter. But this year, it seems, that’s not in the cards. I also wish to sing, to share my love for music and performance, but that, too, is out of reach.
Maybe I’ve hit rock bottom more than once this year, but perhaps there’s a silver lining. After all, when you’ve hit rock bottom, the only way left to go is up.
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