Let’s be real for a second: family is complicated. We love the ones we were born to, but we also know exactly which buttons they can push because, well, they’re the ones who installed them. But then, there’s this other thing—this weird, beautiful, slightly chaotic phenomenon of being folded into a family that has absolutely no DNA-encoded obligation to love you.

You know what I’m talking about. It’s that “bonus family” energy. And honestly? Including family activities with a family that isn’t yours is a different kind of love and acceptance, and it hits different in the heart for everyone.

We’ve all been there. You get the invite: “Hey, we’re doing a Sunday roast/lake trip/competitive board game night, you should totally come!” In your head, you’re doing the math. Is this a ‘polite’ invite? Am I the pity guest? If I show up, will I be the person awkwardly hovering by the chip bowl while they recount stories from the 1994 family reunion?

But then you walk in, and instead of a polite “Oh, hello, Tina,” you get a “Tina! Grab a plate, the napkins are in the drawer you know where they are, and also, can you tell Sarah that her take on the latest Netflix documentary is wrong?”

That moment—the moment you aren’t treated like a “guest” but like an additional piece of furniture that they’ve decided they really like—is where the magic happens.

There is a specific kind of warmth that comes from being included in a family’s internal mythology. When you’ve been around long enough to understand why nobody mentions the Great Thanksgiving Turkey Incident of 2018, or why Uncle Bob isn’t allowed to hold the TV remote, you’ve officially crossed a threshold.

It’s a different kind of love because it’s chosen. They don’t have to share their weird traditions with you. They don’t have to let you see the messy parts—the bickering over who cheated at Monopoly or the way the kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off after a baking session.

When a family lets you into their chaos, they’re saying, “We’re comfortable enough to be our unfiltered selves around you.” And in a world where we’re all trying to be “aesthetic” and “curated,” being invited into someone else’s mess is the ultimate compliment.

I was thinking about this the other day while squeezed onto a couch that was definitely only meant for three people, yet somehow held five of us. I realized why it feels so heavy in the heart (the good kind of heavy, not the ‘I ate too much lasagna’ kind):

• Zero Expectation: You aren’t playing a role you’ve had since you were five. You aren’t “the quiet one” or “the troublemaker” in their eyes. You’re just Tina.

• The Safety Net: There’s something incredibly healing about realizing your support system has expanded beyond your own bloodline. It’s like finding out you have an extra life in a video game.

• The Unspoken Adoption: When someone else’s mom starts worrying if you’ve eaten enough, or their sibling sends you a meme that only your “group” would get, it fills a gap you might not have even known was there.

Of course, it’s not all sentimental sunsets. Being part of a family that isn’t yours means:

1. Learning a whole new set of “unwritten rules” (e.g., “The blue mug is Dad’s mug, don’t even look at it”).

2. Trying to remember the names of fourteen cousins you’ve only met once but who all seem to know your entire life story.

3. The inevitable moment where you accidentally witness a family spat and have to pretend you are very, very interested in the texture of the wallpaper.

But honestly? I’d take the awkward wallpaper-staring any day. Because at the end of the night, when you’re driving home with your heart feeling a little fuller (and your stomach definitely fuller), you realize that family isn’t just about where you started. It’s about who opens the door and says, “Move over, make room for Tina.”

To everyone who has ever been the “honorary” sibling, daughter, or cousin: cherish those people. It’s a rare thing to find a heart that has enough room to claim you as their own.