Ah, breaking the cycle. The phrase itself is deceptively simple, isn’t it? Two words, innocuous on their own, but together they sound like a hammer on an anvil, like a declaration of war against...what exactly? The ghosts of family dinners past, the chain-smoking uncle with his cryptic wisdom, the matriarch who ruled her home with an iron will and a ladle? The sins of the father, as they say, but not just his—also the grudges of the mother, the envy of the cousin, the apathy of the sibling. And somehow, these legacies, tangled as fishing nets, fall into your lap.It starts small. You’re 8 years old, standing in the living room as your parents argue for the fifth time that week. You think, "When I grow up, I’ll never shout like that." Fast forward, and there you are, 30 years old, voice hoarse, trying to explain why you’re late for dinner again. The cycle, it seems, has you in its grip. It’s not some grand Shakespearean curse, but rather the quiet, relentless habits that seep into your bones before you even know they exist.
To break it? That’s not a clean operation. There’s no ceremonial cutting of the ribbon, no reset button. Instead, it’s a slow, shambolic affair—clumsy, like learning to dance when you’ve only ever marched. You make declarations at first: *I will not lose my temper. I will not guilt my children. I will not drink to cope.* The declarations are noble, sturdy, and, as it turns out, flimsy as paper in the wind.
Because here’s the truth they don’t tell you in self-help books: you’re not just fighting the bad habits of your forebears; you’re also fighting their good ones. The comfort of a sarcastic jab in the middle of a tense conversation, the way anger feels like a warm coat when vulnerability would leave you shivering, the stoicism that made your grandmother so admirable but also so unreachable. The cycle isn’t just bad—it’s familiar. And isn’t familiarity its own kind of tradition?
So you start small. You pick a piece of the cycle and hold it up to the light, squinting like it’s an ancient artifact. Maybe it’s the way you bristle at criticism. Maybe it’s the holidays, always fraught with passive-aggressive commentary about who brought the wrong side dish. Whatever it is, you decide: *This, at least, will change.* And you fail. Often. You yell when you swore you wouldn’t. You ignore the call because you’re not ready to be the bigger person. You pour another drink because the silence in your head is too loud.
But then, sometimes, you don’t. One Thanksgiving, you say, “Let’s try something different this year,” and instead of turkey and tension, there’s lasagna and laughter. One day, you stop mid-argument and say, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” It feels awkward, like wearing someone else’s shoes, but then you notice—the cycle wobbles, just slightly, like an old machine that’s finally been given a nudge.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the new traditions start to form. They’re messy and improvised: Saturday morning pancakes instead of Sunday guilt trips, “I love you” texts that feel strange but necessary, inside jokes instead of inside grudges. These aren’t grand gestures. They’re not even particularly creative. But they’re yours, and they’re different, and they’re better.
Breaking the cycle isn’t about erasing what came before. It’s about recognizing the broken parts and daring to fix them, knowing full well that your repair job will be flawed in its own way. And maybe that’s the point. Traditions, like people, aren’t meant to be perfect. They’re just meant to be a little less shambolic than what came before. Or, at the very least, shambolic in a way that makes you laugh instead of cry.
Ah, yes, more—because breaking the cycle is never a one-and-done affair. It’s more like tending to a garden that’s been neglected for generations. You think you’ve got it under control because you’ve pulled a few weeds, but then you turn the corner and find the invasive roots of yet another stubborn vine choking the life out of your progress. It’s endless. Exhausting. And yet, somewhere in the chaos of dirt and thorns, there’s the faintest whisper of hope.
Because here’s the thing about cycles—they’re seductive. They come wrapped in nostalgia and tied with a bow of inevitability. "This is how it’s always been," they whisper. And for a while, that’s enough to keep you in their grip. After all, breaking a cycle isn’t just about behavior—it’s about identity. Who are you if you’re not the sum of your family’s stories, their quirks, their wounds? Who are you without the familiar dysfunction that’s been etched into your DNA like an ancestral tattoo?
But then, one day, you realize that cycles aren’t just inherited—they’re perpetuated. That sarcastic tone you hated as a child? There it is, slipping off your tongue in the middle of a conversation. That simmering resentment you swore you’d never carry? It’s bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. And in that moment, you’re faced with a choice: continue the cycle, or dare to break it.
And daring to break it? Oh, that’s the messy part. Because breaking the cycle means stepping into uncharted territory. It means admitting that you don’t have all the answers, that you might mess up just as much as the people who came before you. It means sitting with the discomfort of change, the vulnerability of trying something new when the old way is so much easier. It means being the one to say, “I forgive you,” even when forgiveness feels like betrayal.
It’s also about reimagining what tradition can look like. Because tradition doesn’t have to be a stone monument, immovable and cold. It can be a patchwork quilt, stitched together from scraps of the old and the new. It can be imperfect and evolving. It can be as simple as deciding that Sunday dinners don’t have to be tense affairs but can instead be spent watching movies in pajamas, passing popcorn instead of passive-aggressive remarks.
And here’s the paradox: in breaking the cycle, you’re not really abandoning your roots. You’re honoring them in the most profound way possible—by acknowledging what didn’t work and daring to do better. You’re taking the lessons they couldn’t articulate, the growth they never achieved, and weaving it into the fabric of your life. You’re saying, “I see you. I see the pain you carried, the mistakes you made. And I choose to carry the best of you forward.”
It’s not easy. There will be moments when the weight of it all feels unbearable, when the temptation to fall back into old patterns is almost too much to resist. But then, there will be other moments—tiny, quiet victories—that remind you why it’s worth it. Like the time you catch yourself taking a deep breath instead of snapping in anger. Or when your child tells you they feel safe talking to you, and you realize you’ve created something that didn’t exist for you. Or when you laugh with your partner over a silly inside joke, and it hits you that this, right here, is the new tradition you’re building.
Breaking the cycle isn’t a clean break. It’s a million tiny, messy, beautiful decisions to choose something different. It’s not about perfection; it’s about intention. It’s about knowing that even in your most shambolic, stumbling efforts, you are planting seeds for a garden your descendants might one day tend with pride. And if that’s not worth the mess, then what is?
-Lou Toad
No comments:
Post a Comment