I Have Started Hating Festivals, and I Don't Feel Guilty About It Anymore

Disclaimer: If you are single, this might not be for you. If you are married and genuinely happy, this might not be for you either. But if you are married, a mother, emotionally exhausted, silently struggling and somewhere between motherhood and marriage, trying to find yourself again, welcome. This one is for you.

After giving my feelings some serious thought, I have come to a rather uncomfortable realisation: I have started hating festivals.

It started with my birthday. A day that was supposed to make me feel special somehow became a reminder of how little people cared about making me feel that way. I have spent birthdays crying because of other people's actions, expectations and disappointments. But that's a story for another day.

Today, let's talk about Diwali and Holi, two of India's biggest festivals.

I am writing this on Dhanteras 2026. Diwali is just two days away, and honestly? I couldn't care less.

For me, Diwali is no longer about beautiful lights, new clothes, sweets, decorations or family photographs. Right now, it is a day that will bring noise, chaos and a hundred additional things to worry about.

For the past few days, my biggest concern has been one question: How the hell is my baby going to sleep through all that noise?

What if he wakes up repeatedly? What if the crackers scare him? What if he gets overstimulated? What if he cannot sleep? What if I have to hold him, calm him down and put him back to sleep over and over again?

And I will do it. Obviously, I will.

But I will also be doing it with a body that is exhausted, a mind that is barely holding itself together and a nervous system that hasn't had a proper break in what feels like forever.

That's how a postpartum mother's brain works. Even when everyone else is celebrating, she is calculating risks, anticipating problems and mentally preparing herself for another night without proper rest.

I am worried about my baby getting hurt by an oil lamp, accidentally touching some fancy decoration, putting something inappropriate in his mouth or getting too close to the festivities.

While I am busy thinking about safety, sleep schedules and overstimulation, somebody else is probably thinking about which crackers to buy, what to wear and how grand the celebrations should be.

And let's talk about fathers for a moment.

For many fathers, festivals are an occasion to celebrate. Firecrackers, pooja, aarti, food, photographs and family gatherings. Meanwhile, mothers are expected to ensure that everything happens smoothly, the baby remains comfortable, the house looks presentable, and nobody's festive mood gets ruined.

Apparently, motherhood comes with an additional unpaid position: Chief Festival Operations Manager.

Of course, there are fathers who genuinely participate, anticipate their children's needs, and share the mental load. If you have one, congratulations. You found a diamond in a mine full of coal. Hold on to that man.

But not everyone gets that luxury.

If you have read my previous blog entry, you probably know a little about what has been happening in my life. Somewhere between trying to become the perfect mother, I realised I had become the imperfect wife.

And you know what? I am slowly making peace with that.

I have very little patience left for unnecessary expectations, emotional demands and people who expect me to keep giving when I am running on empty. Right now, my patience belongs to my child. I don't have the emotional capacity to mother another adult.

And I am not going to apologise for saying that.

Coming back to Diwali, with everything happening in my life, getting ready for the festival and pretending to be excited is the last thing on my mind.

I am grateful that I am at my parents' house this year. At least I don't have to explain why I am not interested in elaborate preparations, participate in things I don't have the energy for or deal with unnecessary arguments about how a festival is supposed to be celebrated.

Had I been somewhere else, I know there would have been expectations, arguments, emotional pressure and things forced upon me simply because it is Diwali.

And sometimes, the most exhausting part of being a woman isn't the work itself. It is having to justify why you don't want to do it.

I know many women don't have this choice. They cannot opt out, take a break or simply say no. They will wake up, cook, clean, decorate, prepare food, manage children, entertain guests and somehow find the energy to smile through it all.

And perhaps I am lucky this year. Perhaps next year will be different. I don't know.

But I do know something.

I want to celebrate festivals with my child, not perform celebrations for everyone else.

I want to decorate the house with him, let him pick the colours, make memories, dress up, eat sweets and watch his excitement when he sees the lights. I want festivals to feel like happiness again.

I want that version of Diwali.

But I also want to wait until I am no longer operating in survival mode. Until motherhood doesn't feel like an endless list of responsibilities. Until I have the mental and emotional space to enjoy something without worrying about everything that could go wrong.

And this isn't limited to Diwali.

I have no particular excitement for Christmas or New Year's Eve either.

What exactly am I supposed to celebrate? And with whom?

With people who couldn't be bothered to pick up their phones and check whether I was doing okay? With people who disappeared when I needed emotional support? With people who were perfectly comfortable watching me struggle but somehow expect me to show up with a smile when there is a celebration?

This has been one of the hardest years of my life. And I am not interested in putting glitter over my exhaustion just because December is approaching.

I don't want grand celebrations. I don't want forced happiness. I don't want to dress up, take photographs, post festive wishes or pretend that everything is wonderful.

I want solitude.

I want a little peace. I want to sit with myself without having to explain my silence. I want to drink my tea while it is still hot. I want to read a few pages without interruption. I want to sleep without anticipating the next thing someone will need from me.

And maybe, just maybe, I will buy myself a beautiful bunch of flowers.

Not because there is an occasion. Not because someone remembered me. Not because I am celebrating anything.

But because I know that if I keep waiting for someone else to make me feel special, I might spend another birthday, another festival and another year feeling disappointed.

So I might as well do it myself.

At 32, I am beginning to understand something I wish I had understood much earlier: festivals look very different when you grow up, especially when you become a woman, a wife and a mother.

As children, we remember the excitement. The sweets, the new clothes, the lights, the colours, the gifts and the holidays.

As adults, we begin to notice the invisible labour behind those celebrations. We notice the women cooking while everyone else eats, the mothers managing overstimulated children, the daughters juggling expectations, the wives swallowing their exhaustion and the women who are expected to keep the magic alive even when they have nothing left to give.

And perhaps that's why festivals don't feel the same anymore.

I don't hate the lights. I don't hate the traditions. I don't even hate the idea of celebrating.

I hate the expectations attached to them. I hate the emotional labour that goes unnoticed. I hate being expected to participate in happiness when nobody seems interested in whether I am actually happy.

I hate that women are often expected to make every occasion special for everyone else while nobody thinks about making life a little easier for them.

Maybe one day I will love festivals again. Maybe my child will bring back the excitement I seem to have lost. Maybe I will look forward to Diwali, Holi, Christmas and New Year's Eve without feeling this heaviness.

But not this year.

This year, I am choosing peace over performance. Rest over rituals. My child's comfort over everybody else's expectations.

And if that makes me a boring wife, an unsocial daughter-in-law, an unenthusiastic woman or an imperfect mother, so be it.

I am done being everyone's festive entertainer.

I don't want to make memories at the cost of losing myself.

I will update this space next year and see whether anything has changed.

Until then, if you are a woman reading this and silently nodding, I hope you get your flowers, your uninterrupted sleep, your hot cup of tea or coffee and, most importantly, the freedom to say, "Not this year."

You don't have to love every festival. You don't have to attend every gathering. You don't have to manufacture happiness to make other people comfortable.

Sometimes, surviving the year is celebration enough.

Thank you for reading. And if you are feeling the same way, I hope you know you aren't alone.