"If you think you're enlightened, spend a week with your family"
—Ram Dass
Returning to the place you grew up is always layered with complexity. As the journey nears, anticipation and trepidation may build—excitement mixed with nostalgia, or perhaps a sense of dread shadowed by darker memories.
Once there, familiar sights and smells—the streets you roamed, the scent of your parents’ living room after dinner, the signature dish your mother makes—awaken dormant thoughts and habits. It’s as though the environment you once knew so well, but left behind, rekindles emotions and habits long buried beneath years of life that have since accumulated.
A few weeks ago, as my car barreled east on the Massachusetts Turnpike towards Boston, underneath the thrill of anticipation was a barely perceptible constriction in my chest. There's something about visiting home that opens up old memories and stirs deep-seated feelings. I sense I’m not alone. This homecoming was to reconnect with my mother and siblings, and to honor my late father, who had passed a year ago at the age of 81. The plan was to unveil his headstone, pay our respects, and enjoy our time together as a family.
Throughout the weekend, as we gathered in mom’s living room, I noticed my head was buried in my phone more than usual—I was "out to lunch," as my mom would put it, in her Boston accent. My siblings noticed too and called me out. While running errands with my brothers, my patience quickly wore thin, marked by f-bombs and grunts—clear signs of my mounting frustrations. Sarcasm and jokes also became my reflex, frequently aimed at my siblings and, occasionally, even at my mother.
In the midst of these moments, an inner voice whispered to me, almost like a shadow flickering at the edge of my awareness. It spoke with a clarity that was unsettling, reminding me of truths I believed I had outgrown: "You thought you thought you had grown up from childhood, eh? No, you haven’t."
Whenever I’m with my family, it’s as if I suddenly regress to a younger version of myself, and all the self-work I’ve done over the years seems to evaporate. I revert to patterns and roles that feel as familiar as they are frustrating, trapped in an emotional time warp and a cycle of regression that ignores the strides I’ve made.
My twin brother, Dave, pointed out my regressions in his own way—with a dose of mockery. “How can you call yourself mindful?” he'd tease, or “You clearly have a lot more work to do,” he'd chuckle. His remarks came with a grin, almost amused, wielding that kind of familiarity only a sibling can muster.
He was half-teasing, and I knew that, but his words hit home—he wasn’t wrong. Around my family of origin, it seems as if a decade of mindfulness and healing is left behind in Upstate New York, replaced by old behaviors and emotional patterns. Despite all the personal work I've done, slipping back into these familiar patterns—numbing, overeating, outbursts, and joking—was too easy, automatic even. As frustrating and humbling as it was to experience this reemergence, it also stirred a deep curiosity within me.
Why do family dynamics seem to pull us back into parts of ourselves we thought we’d moved beyond? It’s as though these early roles and ways of relating are deeply embedded, lying dormant until we step back into the family orbit where they can resurface. Despite all the years of self-work and mindfulness, there is an undeniable gravity to these dynamics, pulling us back to versions of ourselves we believed we had left behind.
Why does it happen? In part, it’s because these patterns were our first language. As kids, we learned who we were through our family—the roles we played, the things we did to be seen, to fit in, to keep the peace. These early dynamics are wrapped up with some of our deepest needs and instincts, and even if they don’t serve us anymore, they’re still familiar. Around family, we return to these roles almost unconsciously, as if to communicate in a language we all know, even if it’s outdated. And as much as we try to stay aware, sometimes the pull is stronger than our will.
Family Systems Theory, a field of psychology that dives into these dynamics, explains that families operate like interconnected systems, with distinct roles, habits, and unconscious expectations that can persist for a lifetime. In this system, everyone has a part to play, reinforcing each other’s behaviors and maintaining the familiar structure. So when we come back together, even years later, those roles snap back into place like the pieces of a well-worn puzzle. It doesn’t matter how much inner work we’ve done—the family system has a gravitational pull of its own, drawing us back into familiar patterns as if we’d never left.
Reflecting on the weekend, I realize some of the ways I acted—the sarcasm, teasing, quick temper, and impatience—are patterns I’m not exactly proud of. They feel at odds with the man I aspire to be. Yet, after countless hours of therapy and training, I see that these behaviors once served me; they helped me survive, connect, and feel accepted within my family.
In our family, there’s a long-standing habit of busting each other’s chops—a quick jab here, a poke there. Growing up, this was our language, a way to bond without getting too serious or vulnerable. Teasing and giving each other a hard time became second nature, shaping how we related and, at times, how we sidestepped real feelings. It was both a form of connection and a way to keep emotions safely at arm’s length.
Numbing was another layer of distance—an easier, quieter way to cope than confronting the chaotic reality of our household. It was about disconnecting, retreating into whatever could momentarily shield us from discomfort or discord. This escape, whether through food, busyness, or withdrawal, became a familiar refuge from the intensity of our home environment. It allowed us to avoid the depth of our emotions, to keep the peace superficially, even if just for a while.
Those habits, so deeply ingrained, were essential tools in the context of family life. Even now, when they resurface, I know they’re not driven by hostility but by habit, by long-standing patterns that emerge when I step back into that familiar world. They remind me that these parts of myself are still there, still part of my story.
Instead of beating myself up for slipping back into these old dynamics, I’m learning to approach them with compassion. There’s humility in admitting that, yes, even after years of self-work, I’m still human. I still have edges, places that challenge me, and I’m still a work in progress. This realization feels oddly liberating, as it reminds me that the journey of self-awareness, mindfulness, and healing isn’t about reaching perfection—it’s about making room for growth. It’s about noticing and understanding these patterns and learning to meet ourselves with acceptance, even when we don’t live up to our own expectations.
This journey isn’t about flawless transformation and perfection; it’s about noticing, embracing, and giving ourselves permission to simply be a work in progress. Returning home reminded me that, as much as we might grow and change, certain environments will always challenge us.
This awareness also helps me communicate more openly with my family, creating an opportunity for us to recognize these long-standing patterns together. By sharing my insights without expectation, I invite them to become more conscious of how we interact and to explore new ways of relating that respect both our shared history and the growth we’re each working toward. And if they aren’t ready for this shift, that’s okay too—because I’m approaching these conversations from a grounded, compassionate place. Each step, whether met with change or not, affirms my own growth and helps me honor both where I come from and where I’m going.
The journey isn’t linear. It’s messy, cyclical, and it’s often when we’re back in those familiar settings, surrounded by people who know our deepest roots, that we realize just how much—and how little—has changed. The parts of ourselves we wish we’d outgrown might resurface, and that’s okay. Maybe the work isn’t about erasing those parts but about honoring them—seeing them with curiosity instead of judgment. Returning to my family dynamic helps me understand the origins of these parts, not to place blame but to gain insight into why I was the way I was. It’s about learning to live with these layers, recognizing them as integral to my whole story.
Perhaps there’s gratitude to be found here, too—for these moments with family that remind us of who we’ve been, who we’re becoming, and the journey that’s brought us here.