I love my family, I do—but I’m not flying across three time zones to be everyone’s unpaid babysitter while they drink sangria by the pool. Not again.

Last year, our “family vacation” was basically me stuck in a suite with three overtired kids under ten while their parents “took a walk” every night. The walk always ended at the resort bar. Meanwhile, I missed the sunrise hike I’d booked, the massage I prepaid, and one entire beach day because I was home with a feverish toddler who wasn’t even mine.

This year, when the vacation group chat started blowing up again, I waited. I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. Then my younger brother tagged me in a message: “@Soraya you down to share the big Airbnb with us again? We figured we’d do Costco runs like last time!”

Nope. Not this time. I replied: “I’ll be booking my own room and driving separately. Just want to relax this year :)”

Four minutes later, my sister-in-law replied with a thumbs-up emoji and then sent a second message: “Just FYI, the kids were really hoping to stay with Auntie Soraya again!”

My mom chimed in with, “We’ll all be together anyway, sweetie. No need for you to spend extra. Besides, you’re so good with the little ones.”

I didn’t budge. “I’m sure they’ll have a great time either way. I just need space this year.”

The chat went dead silent for a whole day. Then came the kicker—

My older sister, Rana, messaged the group: “Honestly, Soraya, it’s kind of selfish. This is a family trip. Not a solo retreat.”

I read it twice. Selfish. The woman who’s never once gotten up at 6 a.m. to change a diaper on vacation just called me selfish.

I didn’t reply. I took a walk around the block. Breathed through it. Let my blood pressure come down. Then I texted my best friend Nisha and asked if her guest house in Santa Barbara was still available. I told her I might need a Plan B.

By the next morning, the group chat had turned into a full-blown mini tribunal. My cousin Jasmin chimed in: “It’s not like anyone makes you help, Soraya.”

Oh really? No one makes me? They just all mysteriously disappear every time one of the kids starts crying or needs to pee.

Still, I kept it classy. I wrote, “I love you all. Truly. But I’m 44, single, and allowed to enjoy my vacation without a chore chart. I’ll see you at the beach, but I won’t be cooking, cleaning, or supervising bath time this year.”

That’s when my mom texted me privately: “I raised you better than this.”

That one stung. Not because it was true—but because it wasn’t.

I was raised to put everyone else first. To be the peacemaker. The helper. The one who notices what needs doing and just… does it. And for years, that’s exactly what I did. But now, here I was, simply drawing a boundary, and suddenly I was the villain.

I ended up crying in the bathtub that night. Not because I regretted what I said—but because I hated that it had come to this. I didn’t want to be separate from my family. I just wanted a sliver of peace.

The week before the trip, I got a text from my nephew Niko. He’s eight and sweet as sugar.

“Auntie Soraya, are you gonna sleep in our room again?”

I took a breath and wrote back: “Not this year, kiddo. But I’ll take you for ice cream one afternoon, just you and me. Sound good?”

He replied with a bunch of emojis, mostly ice cream cones and smiley faces. That gave me a little hope.

I ended up booking a small suite at a quiet inn about a mile from the big Airbnb the rest of them rented. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a private balcony and no bunk beds. I drove myself, too, in case I needed an out.

When I pulled into the beach town that first afternoon, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years on a family trip: calm.

The Airbnb was chaos. I stopped by for a quick hello and was immediately handed a grocery list and asked to “just hold the baby for a sec” while Rana unpacked. I smiled, kissed Niko and little Laleh on the forehead, then passed the baby right back.

“I’ve got a massage booked,” I said cheerfully. “See you all at dinner.”

The look on Rana’s face was pure disbelief. My mom tried to guilt me with a tight-lipped smile. I just waved and walked back out the door.

That massage? Best decision I ever made.

By day three, the tension had cooled. I showed up for beach days and dinners. I played with the kids for an hour here or there, but I left before the meltdowns. I brought wine, not wet wipes.

And you know what? The world didn’t end.

My siblings adjusted. Maybe not happily, but they managed.

Halfway through the trip, my sister-in-law pulled me aside while we were walking to the café.

“You were right,” she said. “We got used to you always saying yes.”

I looked at her. She wasn’t being snarky. She looked tired. “It’s not that I don’t love helping,” I told her. “It’s just… it was never a vacation for me.”

She nodded. “I get it now. I had all three kids solo on Monday. I’m still recovering.”

That night, something weird happened.

Rana apologized.

We were all sitting around a fire pit behind the Airbnb. Most of the kids were asleep. She came over with two glasses of wine and handed me one.

“I was out of line,” she said. “Calling you selfish. That was unfair.”

I stared at her, stunned. I didn’t think she even believed in apologizing.

“I guess I just envied that you could choose,” she added. “I haven’t had a day to myself since 2015.”

“I didn’t choose not to have kids so I could be everyone else’s nanny,” I said, maybe a little too bluntly.

She laughed. Not sarcastic. Just tired. “Fair enough.”

The last two days were genuinely pleasant.

My brother hired a local sitter for one afternoon so the adults could all go out for oysters. For once, I wasn’t the sitter. I just got to be Soraya.

We took silly pictures. We laughed without kids crawling on us. My mom even seemed to relax—though she still gave me a passive-aggressive comment at checkout about how “her room wouldn’t have had that much sun if she’d chosen her own place.”

I let it roll off. She’ll either learn or she won’t. I’m not responsible for her lesson plan.

Back home, I posted a photo from the trip: me in a beach hat, feet up, coffee in hand, not a child in sight. Caption read: “Best family vacation yet. Boundaries: 10/10. Highly recommend.”

A few of my cousins messaged privately asking, “Wait, how did you pull that off?”

I told them the truth. “I just finally said no. Nicely. But firmly. And then stuck to it.”

Nisha texted me later: “Look at you, teaching a masterclass in family self-care.”

The truth is, I didn’t do anything revolutionary. I just stopped saying yes when I meant no.

And here’s what I learned:

When you stop over-functioning, people will be uncomfortable.

But when you keep over-functioning, you will be.

So pick your discomfort.

I still love my family. I’ll still show up, bring dessert, play cards after dinner. But I won’t pack extra crayons, watch other people’s kids so they can sleep in, or pretend that I don’t also need rest.

Because here’s the real twist—since I drew that boundary, they’ve started treating me more like an equal and less like a backup generator.

Turns out, when people see you respecting your time, they start respecting it too.

And maybe next year, someone else will speak up early and say, “I think I want my own space this time too.”

If you’ve ever felt like the default helper, the “fun aunt” who never gets a break, or the one holding it all together while everyone else unwinds—let this be your sign.

You’re allowed to take up space. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to book your own damn room.

If this hit home, give it a like or share. Someone out there probably needs the permission you’ve been waiting to give yourself.