Becoming estranged from my parents made the holidays incredibly hard. Now as a parent, I've started to rediscover the little joys of Christmas.

• I cut my parents out of my life in my 20s and never spent another Christmas with them again.
• Throughout the years, I traveled with my husband to avoid the holiday season.

In my childhood, Christmastime was mostly filled with joy — thanks only to my extended family.

My cousins lived nearby, and my fondest Christmas memories were with them: my aunt loading us into her old Suburban to drive to a San Francisco hotel for fancy Christmas tea, us kids probably acting too silly for the occasion, lazing in our pajamas all day over winter vacation, my uncle singing along to his Christmas favorites.

In my home, though, life was intensely fraught. Holidays were invariably worse. My Christmas memories in my nuclear family are of my father's sullenness threatening to turn violent.

My extended family was a refuge. My aunt showered her kids with gifts and has always had a passion for making life fun for everyone around her. The contagiousness of Christmas at their home was a balm.

I cut off contact with my parents

I finally walked away from my father's violence in my 20s and cut off contact. My mother, whom I was close with and who is still married to him, chose to sever her relationship with me in response. The estrangement, now nearly 20 years ago, was one of the top three events of my life, alongside meeting my husband and becoming a parent.

My husband and I had married by then, so I had my own family. My first Christmas parentless, I coped by escaping. We drove from the Bay Area to Baja California, Mexico, and did absolutely nothing Christmassy. We ate the best carne asada ever at a strip mall in Tijuana and window-shopped for cowboy boots in Ensenada. Christmas in Mexico is huge, but I steadfastly ignored the decorations.

Holidays continued to be hard for many years

Year after year, the holidays were a minefield. In my extended family, my father's violence was always ignored. By speaking out, I became a liability.

Either my extended family invited both my parents and me — leaving me to choose between my safety and holidays with family — or I wasn't invited. As the years passed, and it became clear I wasn't going to bend to my father, the tension was insidious. My uncle, my father's brother, treated me at times like an interloper, even though my aunt was as welcoming as ever.

While our newlywed years were spare, my husband and I traveled over Christmastime often, something many people likely wish for. In those early years, the holidays were deeply painful, a time of loss and grief.

But ignoring the existence of Christmas on a quiet beach helped as I soaked in the quiet of our own peaceful, little family.

I wanted to belong

I didn't miss Christmas itself: I'm an atheist and was already disillusioned with Christmas consumerism. What I mourned was the belonging and joy I'd felt with my extended family.

Then, five years after the estrangement, we moved to a state far away. Suddenly, I wanted to buy a tiny Christmas tree, just for the smell. I started listening to Christmas music, something I'm surprised I love.

We now live in Canada, where we have no family. When our child was born, our only Christmas tradition was zero gifts and Christmas Eve dinner at home.

Throughout the year, we have other celebrations that are more meaningful to us. And we're free to celebrate Christmas in a way that fits with our values, without family stress. No driving to multiple parties on one day, no trade-off of Christmas with my family one year and in-laws the next.

This Christmas Eve, we'll overload on the carols and have a nice dinner. Plus, one new tradition, which my child discovered in kindergarten — and I don't have the heart to be a Scrooge about. We'll leave a note and snack for Santa, and Santa will leave a single present behind. If we're lucky, there will be snow. We don't need anything more.