“So, Raz, how’s Jeff?” my uncle asks as he forks a piece of turkey and pushes it through a puddle of gravy. He smirks, waits, pleased with his opening bit. 

My husband has worked for Amazon for nearly a decade. This fascinates my family. All big company names do. They seemed much more interested in my professional pursuits when they had big names behind them, too: Xbox, Microsoft, and Nordstrom among them. 

It doesn’t matter to my uncle that Jeff Bezos no longer captains the Amazon ship. Jeff is his point of reference. Jeff is the famous name. Jeff is the person who created it all, this endlessly fascinating sea of opportunity for “tech guys” like my husband, who is frequently called out by my mom’s high school boyfriends at the Douglas County Fair for not being “from around here.” They are always quite satisfied with themselves for pointing out the obvious. In the dusty fields of North Central Washington, though, Raz’s very clean shoes do stand out. 

But, my husband can hang. He is a good sport — charismatic, funny, clever. Back at the Thanksgiving dinner table, he says something about space or super yachts or The Washington Post, and off they go on their exploration of this world that we inhabit and my uncle doesn’t. As more family members from around the table jump in, the conversation almost always ends up in China. 

No wonder I’ve spent so many Thanksgivings in Papa’s recliner reading. 

It’s an important exercise to get outside of your own experience, to see through the eyes of others, and when we’re enjoying a holiday meal with my family, we certainly gain a lot of outside perspective. And opinions. My maternal family’s day-to-day is nearly opposite of ours; their questions are not even on our radar. 

My uncle, the one with the opening bit, is currently the county assessor. My grandma was a teacher, my grandfather a periodontist. They are some of the hardest-working people I know. 

And when I told them I planned to declare a major in English, they all asked me what in the world I planned to do with that. “How will you make money?” my grandma inquired. 

“I’ll figure it out,” I assured her, very not sure. 

At every Thanksgiving that followed, my family berated me about how I planned to use my degree until I got a series of fancy jobs working for those names they’d heard. Even when I was unhappy in the jobs they admired from the outside, I knew I’d get their approval — and more curiosity than judgment — if I kept climbing to the next legitimate rung of the corporate ladder. 

But, at a certain point, I had to decide what I cared about more: my family’s approval or my fulfillment. Sure, Thanksgiving dinner would be more pleasant for me if I stayed in the lane they understood, a lane that they felt was more representative of my pedigree, a lane they could brag about to their friends. I couldn’t stand, though, to walk a path that pandered to my family’s beliefs. I needed to make my own name, not stand behind someone else’s. Not even theirs. 

So, I chose the judgmental questions or the no questions at all route. Outside of a bar in lower Queen Anne on a cold December night, I found a husband who (for now) has an exciting name propping up his. And I’ve learned to be OK with whatever they think — or don’t think — about me and my choices. Their opinions aren’t really any of my business anyway. 

Did Thanksgiving delay my dreams? Probably a little. But I believe it was meant to. I needed to get braver. I needed to try it their way first. 

I’m exactly where I need to be, whether they care to ask me questions about it or not. 

What about you? Have you ever made career decisions because of your family?

Whitney Popa is a writer, editor and consultant for little companies with big dreams. A born communicator, she connects people through stories. She believes strongly in many things, including expensive sweat suits, offroad vehicles, good books and bad TV. With her two cats, two kids, and one husband, Whitney splits her time between Edmonds and Waterville, WA.