Every December holiday season, my daughter and I do something that surprises people: we leave Philadelphia, and we don’t visit family. We pack our bags, step out of our work routines, and travel to somewhere we hope is magical. We don’t leave because the holidays are hard or because we’re avoiding anyone. We go because it is the only time of year when the world finally quiets down enough for us to breathe and be fully present with each other.

My email stops. My meetings stop. The urgency that seems to follow me everywhere, as a scholar, a leader, a mother, and a woman who cares for many people, eases up. That stillness is rare, and my daughter and I protect it.

I grew up without vacations. We didn’t have the money or time for travel. I didn’t step on a plane until I was a senior in high school, and my family did not accompany me. Travel, in my mind, belonged to other families, those families who didn’t spend every dollar on bills, who didn’t have to, as my mom would say, “rob Peter to pay Paul” to make it work.

When my daughter and I travel now, especially during a season that pushes consumption and excess, I feel the contrast. I now know what it means to move through the world with ease and to grow up without that ease. I don’t take it lightly. I don’t romanticize it either. It means a lot to have a life where we can choose rest over hustle.

My daughter and I don’t chase the “holiday experience.” There are no shopping marathons, no pressure to decorate perfectly, no cooking huge meals, no big plans beyond wandering, talking, and enjoying each other’s company. Our gifts to each other are simple. We have decided to trade things for time, museums instead of malls, long walks instead of long to-do lists, late breakfasts, quiet cafés, and inside jokes that only come when you’ve been traveling with someone for years.

What I love the most is all of the laughter, which is usually loud, often, and at ourselves.

People sometimes assume that skipping extended-family gatherings means distance or tension. It doesn’t. It simply means this approach works for us. It’s our way of grounding ourselves before the new year begins. In a season that can easily become artificial, where joy is expected to look and sound a certain way. We choose something slower and more meaningful for us.

I believe presence is a gift, and we can give it in many forms. Sometimes we show love by gathering in large groups and celebrating traditions. Sometimes we show love by carving out space to rest, reflect, and reconnect with the people who know us best. Both approaches are valid. This one gives me a sense of calm and of being alive.

When January arrives, I don’t feel exhausted from engaging with people during the holidays. I feel ready and restored. I step into the new year with clarity, joy, and a deep sense that I spent my time in a way that respects my values and honors my daughter’s growth and dreams as well.

For us, the holiday season isn’t about being busy or being everywhere at once. It’s about choosing where and how to show up. It’s about giving each other attention without distraction. It’s about laughter, curiosity, and building the kind of memories I never had the chance to build as a child.

We come home with stories, with new ideas, and with a kind of calm that feels necessary, especially in a world that rarely slows down, especially in these times we are living in now.