The Practice of Maybe

This week the holiday invitations began to arrive—the Diwali parties and Thanksgiving get-togethers, year-end potlucks and invitations to fall-themed picnics.

Each invitation full of warmth and good intention, each one assuming the same quiet thing: of course your daughter will come, too. And our pup? Of course he’ll stay home.

In years past, I’d type a reluctant yes without a second thought. Because that’s what one does, right?

But now, even before I finish reading the evite, my chest tightens. Not because I don’t love these people, but because I can already picture my daughter—eleven, bright, introverted, the only only-child among clusters of siblings—trying to fit herself into a dynamic that doesn’t fit her.

The forced conversations. The tables where she sits politely while adults linger over dessert and siblings share inside jokes. The small talk that stretches hours.

And suddenly, I see myself again—that same child, decades earlier, watching my parents laugh with their friends while I sat at another table, the odd one out. I remember pretending to be fine while wishing to be anywhere else.

My parents had bonds that ran deep with their friends. Memories and inside references I’d never understand. We children were barely a decade old—sometimes less. We often had no memory of each other from the time we were babies. We were strangers whose only connection was the coincidence of our parents’ friendship, expected to play nice for three, four hours while the adults enjoyed themselves.

No one asked if I wanted to go.

No one wondered what it cost to spend weekend after weekend in other people’s houses, smiling through boredom. It wasn’t cruelty; it was convention.

The adults wanted connection. The kids had to tag along.

It’s astonishing how early we start practicing endurance.

We rarely recognize how these small family rituals train us to override ourselves. To sit through what feels uncomfortable because “these are family friends,” because “you’ll warm up once you’re there,” because “that’s what families do.”

In our culture, family friends are a category unto themselves … not quite kin, not quite optional.

Now, as an adult, I see how that conditioning lingers. The reflexive yes. The fear of seeming difficult. The belief that love means endurance.

The irony is that as adults, we’ve built entire systems to protect our own comfort.

Playdates are drop-offs. Carpool lines end at the curb. “I’m not looking for new friends” is considered self-awareness, not rudeness. We’ve learned that obligation without genuine connection leads to resentment. We know our time and energy matter.

But we ask our children to do exactly what we refuse to do.

We have decades of history with our friends—the gatherings feed us, fulfill us. Our children are asked to manufacture connection with near-strangers so we can enjoy ourselves.

And when they’re awkward or bored, we tell them to “figure it out”—as if being the same age is enough, as if their discomfort is something to overcome rather than a reasonable response to an uncomfortable situation they never chose.

We honor our need for space, but ask our children to tolerate situations we'd never endure. We say yes on their behalf. We override their signals, the way ours were once overridden.

What we’re really saying is: my boundaries matter. Yours will, someday. Not yet.

At home, we joke that our pup, Ollie, is our best excuse. “We can’t leave him that long," I say, half-truth, half-relief. He doesn't like big crowds; neither do I.

When we stay home, it’s not antisocial—it’s peaceful. The house hums differently when we’re all together: the three of us and this small creature who has no use for social obligation.

He reminds me of what ease feels like. Of belonging that doesn’t require effort.

So when the invitations come, I look at him curled up at my daughter’s feet and think: why would I drag either of them away from this peace just to perform connection somewhere else?

If our friends truly want to catch up, why not meet for lunch on a weekday, when kids are at school, when conversation doesn’t compete with noise? Why does grown-up convenience so often trump everyone else’s comfort?

On Wednesday, during our monthly Ripple Room session, I watched eight women scattered across time zones give themselves permission—to play, to not know, to make something messy. The air was light, curious, unguarded. Someone said, “I needed this so bad.”

I keep returning to that. The deep exhale that comes when permission is granted …when no one has to perform. Maybe that’s what we all crave: the right to be fully ourselves without disappointing anyone.

And maybe that’s what I want to give my daughter. Not just a night off from another dinner, but a life where “no” and “maybe” are real options without guilt or justification.

I know there’s a cost in this. Some invitations I’ll decline and feel the sting. Some friends may not understand. There will be awkwardness, subtle judgment, the faint sense of drifting from certain circles.

But there’s also a cost in the unexamined yes: the slow erosion of self-trust.

So this season, I’m continuing to sit in the maybe. I’m listening for what feels light in my body and honoring it. I’m asking my daughter not what she wants to do, but how it feels to imagine it. And together, we’ll decide from there.

The evites will keep coming. The festivals will unfold, luminous and loud. But here at home, with our dog asleep at our feet and the air unhurried, I can feel a quieter kind of celebration taking shape: one built on permission, presence, and the relief of no longer saying “yes” when our bodies mean “maybe.”

The weight has lifted. Not entirely—there’s still uncertainty, still the discomfort of choosing differently. But my heart feels lighter. My body does too. And I guess that’s what yes is supposed to feel like.