The holiday season comes wrapped in nostalgia and emotional landmines. Hallmark sells us warmth and togetherness. Reality hands us one long group text about who’s bringing what, and who’s bringing baggage. For queer people, that baggage isn’t metaphorical. It’s personal, political, and perennial.

Family dinner for many LGBTQ+ people isn’t a celebration. It’s a high-stakes performance where your pronouns are questioned more than your pie recipe. You’re expected to sit there smiling while someone makes a “joke” about gender, or asks whether you’re “still doing that they/them thing,” or insists they just don’t get your lifestyle. 

That’s why more and more queer people are choosing something else entirely: peace. And it’s not just about avoiding discomfort, it’s about defending joy. 

Julie Seaver, CEO of Compass LGBTQ+ Community Center, says she gets more calls from community members and DMs from friends around the holiday season asking for help dealing with families who voted against them. 

“It’s really divided the country, and it’s really hard, and some of us don’t look forward to the holidays with our family because you can only talk about the weather for so long,” Seaver said. 

Many queer people are expected to sit at a table with people who love us conditionally. People who cast votes that erode our rights and then expect a hug at dessert. People who think they can separate the “politics” from the “person,” as if those things haven’t always been intertwined in queer life. 

So here’s the truth: You don’t owe anyone your presence. You don’t need to “be the bigger person.” You don’t need to educate anyone over mashed potatoes. You’re not required to keep the peace when your peace is what’s being chipped away. 

You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to leave early. You’re allowed to choose a gathering with friends, a solo movie night, or a group of queers eating Chinese takeout in someone’s apartment while talking shit and playing Uno. That counts as family. Maybe more than what you were born into. 

“Chosen family” isn’t a euphemism; it’s a lifeline. It’s who shows up when your blood relatives stop showing up for you. It’s who knows your name, not just your deadname. It’s who makes space for your joy, not just tolerates your existence. 

And this year? That joy isn’t up for debate.

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