At some point, I became Clark Griswold.

Growing up, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation was never my favorite Christmas movie. I knew it was supposed to be funny, but it just felt so, old.

As a kid, I always identified with Russ: along for the ride, slightly confused about what was going on, and mostly concerned for my own basic needs like staying warm and self-preservation.

As I’ve gotten older, the movie has started making an uncomfortable amount of sense. Somewhere between fixing the Wi-Fi for the whole house and organizing a drawer for no real reason, I crossed over and, much to my younger self’s absolute horror, somehow became Clark Griswold.

Somewhere along the way I’d gone from being the kid fetching something from the garage to the guy trying to hold the whole holiday together. I somehow became the adult dreaming of construction projects rather than the toy I might open on Christmas morning.

Now, in defense of Clark, there’s nothing wrong with having high hopes, big plans, and even some unrealistic expectations for life. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the holidays, family dynamics, or work projects to feel meaningful.

The issue is that, far too often, life is less like a beautiful Norwegian Spruce that is “a thymbol of the thpririt of the family Chrithmath,” and more like a tree on fire with a squirrel leaping out at the most unexpected moment. Like Clark, we put so much pressure on ourselves to make everything perfect for everyone else and instead find that all of our hard work may have led to an unending rechecking of every lightbulb on our “250 strands of imported Italian twinkle lights.”

Life often throws us curveball after curveball and there is no amount of planning that can keep us from getting hit from time to time as we hang from the gutters of life, by our sleeve stapled to our remaining shred of stability.

If we’re not careful, the little things will do us in: small frustrations, strained relationships, or even the the emotional weight of realizing we can’t make everyone happy. Why? Because far too often we find ourselves standing on the edge of the great work we’ve done only to look over and find the Cousin Eddies of life pouring acidic refuse into our storm drains.

By the end of the movie, Clark learns that real growth happens in learning to respond to what we didn’t script. It comes in realizing that no amount of planning, spending, or hard work can force life to go in the way that we want. Like him, we all have to learn that maybe life is not meant to be perfected, only lived. That beauty can be found in the disfunction and joy can be found even in a subscription to the “Jelly of the Month Club.”

What I’ve learned from becoming Clark Griswold is that the messy, chaotic moments are often where connection, laughter, humility, and love actually take root. The best memories usually show up in the very situations I try hardest to avoid. And being the one holding things together is okay, as long as I remember that sometimes it really is just “Christmas, and we’re all in misery.”

In the end, I think Clark might have been onto something. The wild hope, the big-hearted effort, the desire to make things special for the people around him, none of that is the problem. It’s the pressure he piles on himself that sends everything sideways. Maybe the real invitation is to keep the hope but loosen the grip, to let things be a little crooked, a little imperfect, a little human.

So if you find yourself trying to make everything magical, take a breath. Even Clark’s house didn’t light up on the first try.