I don’t bake Christmas cookies with my children. It’s not because I don’t want to; in fact, I adore cookies, cooking, and spending time with them. Logically, these activities should mesh beautifully. Yet, when it comes time to bake, my anxiety skyrockets and I find myself holding my breath. I rush through the process, trying to finish as quickly as possible while internally coaxing myself with affirmations like, “I’m alright. It’s fine. I’m safe. This is 2023. I can manage this.” My heart doesn’t settle until the last cookie is out of the oven and the kitchen is spotless again. The urgency to clean comes from a deep-seated fear—if I don’t restore order, the critical voice in my head, which echoes my mother’s disapproval, will take over.
Now, before you think that sounds strange, let me clarify: my mother is not actually around to reprimand me—she lives four hundred miles away. But that inner voice, the one that constantly critiques my every move, mimics her judgment. I often find myself haunted by memories of her glaring disapproval, even when I’m fully awake.
A Chaotic Memory
I remember one particular December when I was fourteen. My mother insisted we all bake Christmas cookies together. We had an assortment of whimsical cookie cutters, some dating back to her childhood. It should have been a fun family activity. Instead, it turned into a chaotic mess filled with her sighs of discontent. The entire endeavor was stressful for me, not to mention that the cookies always turned out stale and inedible.
That year, I finally drew a line in the sand and declared I wouldn’t participate. I was going to retreat to my room with a book instead. You would have thought I had committed a crime. My mother, with my father’s support, cornered me. They chastised me for being ungrateful, and I knew they were preparing to punish me. I was done with corporal punishment. At fourteen, I felt I had outgrown that chapter of my life.
In a moment of instinct, I used the blocks I’d learned in karate to defend myself, but it was futile against two adults. They physically removed me from the house, shutting the door behind me with a directive to return only when I was ready to act mature.
Stunned, I found myself barefoot and coatless on the front porch of our home. My survival instincts kicked in, and I sprinted to the back door, where I managed to retrieve my shoes before my father confronted me. I calmly explained I just wanted my shoes, and thankfully, he let me be.
I wandered through our neighborhood until I reached the home of Hannah, a young woman who had babysat for us. I felt she would understand my plight. Hannah and her mother listened to my story and offered their support, but ultimately, I returned home knowing things wouldn’t change.
When I got back, my parents barely spoke to me. They informed me that as punishment, I wouldn’t be allowed to sing in the church choir for Christmas Mass. My heart ached as I watched my peers perform without me, my parents’ pride in my supposed “dignity” only deepening my sense of isolation.
Struggling with the Past
Now, I find myself grappling with similar feelings as I avoid baking with my own kids. I want to create joyful memories in the kitchen, but the shadows of my past loom large. This year, my struggle with PTSD has heightened my awareness of why I hesitate to dive into baking. I realize that if I had been busy with singing gigs, as I usually am this time of year, I could have used that as an excuse to shy away from making those baking memories with my little ones. But now, the truth is unavoidable.
I long to be free of these painful memories and not let them dictate my present. I yearn to bake cookies and sing with my children, to share the joy of cooking and music. But for now, that remains a distant dream. Perhaps hitting rock bottom has a silver lining—a chance to rise again.
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Summary
Baking Christmas cookies with my children is a challenge I avoid due to past trauma associated with my mother’s disapproval. Memories of stress and punishment from my childhood surface, preventing me from creating joyful baking experiences. This year, my struggles with PTSD amplify my longing to share these moments with my kids, but the weight of my past holds me back.