Going Home for Christmas, or Staying Away from What We’ve Redefined

Words shape perception. And perception shapes experience.

When we misuse words, we misinterpret our lives.

In recent years, one word has been quietly overused, stretched thin, and emptied of nuance: burden. We use it casually — to describe family obligations, shared living, hosting relatives, contributing to a household, showing up when resources are limited. But what if some of what we call burdens are not burdens at all, but moments misread through the wrong lens?

Perhaps the problem is not the situation, but the definition we bring to it.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the slowly fading tradition of going home for Christmas. Increasingly, people choose not to go. Not because they do not love their families, but because home has become associated with expectation, financial strain, judgment, and quiet measurement. Who has made it. Who hasn’t. Who is contributing enough. Who is costing too much.

Family, once anchored in presence, protection, and shared life, has gradually been redefined around money, material success, and visible achievement. Love is measured in provision. Care is equated to financial contribution. Worth is subtly tied to independence and ownership. And so, being together without money begins to feel like failure rather than connection.

In this framework, shared living becomes a burden. Extended family becomes a liability. Dependence — even temporary — is seen as regression. Time spent together is tolerated only if it is financially neutral or advantageous. Anything else feels expensive, even when no money changes hands.

But what is truly being lost here?

What disappears when we reduce family to an economic unit is the value of presence. The quiet safety of being known. The accumulation of shared memories. The simple fact of not being alone in the world. These things do not show up on balance sheets, yet they are foundational to human wellbeing.

We often speak of being “blessed” when we mean materially comfortable, financially secure, upwardly mobile. But perhaps the more accurate word — the one we struggle to use — is abundance. Not abundance of money, but abundance of relationship. Of continuity. Of belonging.

When viewed through a narrow definition of success, abundance can look like inconvenience. It can feel noisy, demanding, inefficient. But when viewed honestly, it is also what many people quietly long for and cannot afford to buy.

There is a painful irony here. In trying to protect ourselves from financial strain, we sometimes impoverish our emotional lives. In avoiding situations where we might be asked for help, we avoid situations where we might be held, known, or remembered. We call this self-preservation, but it often comes at the cost of connection.

This is not to romanticize difficulty or ignore real economic pressures. Money matters. Boundaries matter. Sustainability matters. But when every interaction is filtered through cost, we risk losing sight of value.

Maybe the question is not “Is this a burden?” but “What lens am I using to judge this?”
What would change if we evaluated moments not only by what they demand, but by what they give — quietly, over time?

As Christmas approaches, many will stay away. Some out of necessity. Others out of fear. Fear of being measured. Fear of being asked. Fear of not being enough.

And yet, something gentle and irreplaceable is being missed.

Not everyone can give money. But many can give presence. Not everyone can arrive successful. But many can arrive human. And perhaps that, too, has value — even if we no longer know how to name it.

Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

Not All Disabilities Are Visible

Some pain does not leave a mark. Some exhaustion does not show in the face. Some people are carrying weights that have no name, no diagnosis, and no outward sign. We are used to recognizing suffering only when it can be pointed to — a bandage, a crutch, a cast, a wound. Something we can see. But the human interior is its own world, and often, the heaviest struggles live there. The Quiet Work of Holding Yourself Together There are those who walk into a room smiling, contributing, present — and yet they are holding themselves together one breath at a time. Not because they are pretending, but because they have learned to live with what would overwhelm another person. Some battles are fought inside the mind: The slow grey of depression The relentless hum of anxiety The sudden, unbidden memory that takes the body back to a place it never wants to return The deep fatigue that sleep does not cure And yet, life continues. The world moves. The dishes still need to be wa...

Know Thyself: The Quiet Power of Naming Your Nature

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” — Carl Jung We live in a culture that equates good intentions with goodness, and ambition with ability. But very few people in Kenya—or anywhere—truly know what they are made of. We can name our qualifications and our dreams. But ask someone their vices or virtues, and they hesitate. Worse, they lie. The Danger of Self-Unawareness In Kenya today, many of us are wandering through life making choices—big, small, and irreversible—without truly understanding who we are. We end up in jobs we despise, relationships we shouldn’t be in, or positions of influence we aren’t emotionally or ethically equipped for. And at the root of this dysfunction is a simple truth: we don’t know ourselves. This is not a spiritual or abstract dilemma. It’s a deeply practical one. To know oneself is to understand your vices, your virtues, your weaknesses, and your strengths—not in a vague sense, but in detail. Let’s ge...

KenyaOnAShoeString

Search This Blog