When I was a teenager, my family was labeled as dysfunctional by a psychiatrist who was treating one of my family members. I remember hearing that and immediately thinking that the label didn’t fit. 

I’m not knocking the care this family member was getting or scrutinizing how they might have been feeling. There was some strife in our household, which was disconcerting. As this family member struggled with physical and emotional challenges, there was arguing and stress. But there was plenty of love and laughter, too. Traditions such as nightly family dinners, family vacations, and Sunday church provided steady support.

I also had a grandmother who was a Christian Science practitioner. I recall conversations with her in which she would talk about how good we all are, how deeply we are loved by God, and how, as God’s spiritual offspring, we can never be led astray. I got so used to thinking this way that it wasn’t until my early adulthood that I began to appreciate what it really meant, and that the label “dysfunctional” couldn’t truly be affixed to my family, to the family member who was struggling, to me, or to anyone.