It’s Christmas morning, and after a lovely Christmas Eve filled with gifts and heavy appetisers and pomegranate martinis at my dad and bonus mom’s house last night, I have not set an alarm. I wake up naturally, slide the breakfast casserole and cinnamon rolls in the oven, pour myself a giant cup of coffee, feed the cats, light a candy cane candle, and crawl back into bed to read for an hour. The silver tinsel tree in my room sparkles as I snuggle under a velvet green comforter with my phone on Do Not Disturb.
After breakfast, I leave the phone in a kitchen cubby and pull on jeans, a few layers and my hiking boots to walk two blocks east to the local glen. As I descend the rock steps, I pass a fellow solo adventurer, a woman decked out in red and green running gear and a Santa hat. She beams and shouts a semi-breathless “Merry Christmas” as she sprints up the steps past me. I walk further down into the forest bowl, over the bridge by the beaver dam and north to the waterfall, which is sometimes frozen. The air is clean and sharp, and the quiet is mesmerising — just shy of holy.
When I return to the house, I throw the brown sugar ham in the oven and the cheesy potatoes in the slow cooker. Once I’m showered and comfy in my thick gray sweatpants, hoody and fleece socks, I open the under-the-tree packages I’ve saved from friends, thoughtful presents that have arrived this month from all over the U.S. and abroad. I text each a thank you and a “Happy Holidays” before putting my phone back on Do Not Disturb.
I grab my book, settle in on the couch with the cats, turn an NBA game on mute, and read and nap for the rest of the day. In the evening, I’ll make myself a ham sandwich, stream “Christmas Vacation” or “Home Alone,” pour a bourbon, and lean in to the relaxation vibes. It’s one of my favourite days of the year, and I wish I didn’t have to white-Christmas-lie to make it happen.
***
When you tell people that you plan to spend a holiday by yourself, they do not like it. They recoil in horror. They extend immediate invites. They frown at you with visibly abject pity. They say, “But you can’t spend Christmas alone! No one should spend Christmas alone!”
Ma’am, I can, and I do. And I love it.
When I was a kid, my parents hosted a Clark Griswold-esque “Fun Old Fashioned Family Christmas” dinner for 20-plus family members. It was generally as chaotic but not nearly as entertaining as the movie. My mother worked herself to the bone for the month leading up to the big day. The week prior was a Christmas nightmare of chores and to-do lists for her, my dad and me. On Christmas morning, we were always on the clock. Mom literally set a timer while we opened presents. Even then, I thought, Why does most of this work and “holiday magic-making” fall to the women? What a crock.
Forced holiday magic extends to the workplace too. As an educator, I’ve taught in many schools with a Secret Santa gift exchange option for the teachers. Each year, I would decline, and each year, the organisers would include me anyway, which meant that I did not participate but still received gifts. The men were allowed to sidestep these shenanigans entirely. They said no — period — no questions asked. I wanted to shout in my loudest Buddy the Elf voice, “I reject your Santa Shaming! I will not be held hostage by false frivolity or your seasonal capitalist agenda!”
It’s all too much. I’m not a Grinch, but there’s nothing magical in this introvert hell. So, I’ve opted out.
In my former life as a Very Earnest Person, I used to be more forthcoming. When friends and loved ones invited me to their celebrations, I would attempt explanations about how much I legitimately enjoyed spending holidays by myself. “Hear me out!” I’d say. “My teaching job is an extremely extroverted endeavour. A day by myself with nowhere to be, no schedule and no care demands is a true gift!” People have come a long way in their understanding of introverts (thank you, Susan Cain), but a holiday alone is just a step too far for them.
They take my no as a personal rejection rather than a personal choice. They cannot abide it. They invite me not once, not twice, but three times. Sometimes more. They text, “The offer still stands if you change your mind! We’d love to have you!” I respond with a gracious, “Thank you so much for the invitation! It’s really very kind of you, but I’m all set with plans” each time, but by the fourth or fifth invitation that I am forced to awkwardly decline again, I am often out of patience. I know they mean well, and their generosity is notable. I can’t help but wonder: Why can’t folks who claim to know and love me let me be?
I’m not a monster. I see my family and friends regularly throughout the year. I have accepted many holiday invitations since my mom died on Thanksgiving night in 2013 and my dad remarried a few years later. I’ve attended Easter gatherings with my own extended family, midsize Thanksgiving Day get-togethers with random mixes of friends and co-workers, large Christmas Day soirees with other people’s huge families and their extended families. I have made the effort. And they all have too.
On each occasion, the hosts and guests were so welcoming and gracious with wine and gifts and gorgeous meals. I enjoyed meeting new people. But as I hovered on the edges of these events — observing, always observing — I felt like I was standing outside a holiday window display, watching a tableau. On the other side of that window, I could perform participation in a spirit of gratitude, but it wasn’t joy. My joy is in the solitude.
Several years after Mom died and after several years of attending the aforementioned events, I quietly started celebrating Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day by myself. I tried to explain why, but given how persistent people were, I quickly figured out that it was just much more efficient to be vague about my plans. It’s not something I make a habit of in my everyday life, but I’m trying to protect my seasonal peace — and theirs. Everyone seems happier if they think I’m spending a holiday “with friends.” It’s not technically untrue; my friends are the cats and my books. And I could not be happier.
I acknowledge that I’m a triple threat of peculiar that many people can’t understand (and some are trying to legislate, NEAT!): an artist, an only child and a happy childless cat lady. And perhaps my holiday perspectives seem extreme. But perhaps you’ve also noticed that people really like to tell women and other marginalised populations what to do. How to live. What they can and cannot do with their bodies and their choices and their lives.
It turns out my choice may not be so outlandish. Approximately 30% of American households are single-occupied. According to Paul Dolan, a professor of behavioural science at the London School of Economics and the author of ”Happy Ever After: A Radical New Approach to Living Well,” the results of the Census Bureau’s American Time Use Survey suggest unmarried, childless women are the happiest population. And there are more of us now than there have ever been before.
I was in my late 20s before I heard a single woman extol the virtues of living alone, on her own terms. It wasn’t anyone I knew personally, but I might as well have: When I picked up a copy of Caroline Knapp’s essay collection ”The Merry Recluse,” I felt like I knew her. I felt like I was her. I felt seen and validated in a way I never had. I understood in my bones what Knapp meant when she said she required alone time, that she’d “always been drawn to solitude, felt a kind of luxurious relief in its self-generated pace and rhythms.” All these years later, so merry in my own occasional reclusivity, I’m not trying to radicalise anyone to my way of life. I’m not asking you to spend the holidays alone. I’m just asking you to let me. And to believe me when I say it’s what I want.
So this year, I’ll forgo the seasonal fibbing. It is always important to tell the truth, but right now, when so many of us are feeling vulnerable, it seems especially important to claim who we are. To take up space as our full selves. And to give each other the chance to extend grace by saying, “I see you, and I accept you, even if I don’t understand you.”
I’m reminding myself that I’m an adult woman who gets to choose how I do holidays — for now, anyway. I’m going to enjoy it while I can. Because I can. And I hope you can claim and choose your holiday plan, which is to say yourself and your peace too.
When I think about the holidays, I love the enormous tapestry of our varied rituals and traditions, old and new. Friends from big families will spend time together crammed into one chaotic house, because they wouldn’t have it any other way. Friends with young children will finally say to their parents and in-laws, “We’re staying put this year, but you’re welcome to join us.” Friends estranged from their biological families will spend time with their chosen families, surrounded by love and joy and acceptance. Friends who are choosing sobriety for the first time ever will bravely say “No thanks” at cocktail parties and dinners. Friends who’ve recently lost parents and spouses will find their way through grief. Friends from different faith traditions will pray and break bread together, holding space for universal awe. And me? I’ll be alone, savouring every second of my solitude. All will be calm. All will be bright. How beautiful, these choices. Let’s let each other make them.
Erin Hill is an educator, artist and writer. Her work has appeared in The Sun, The Belladonna Comedy, Oh Reader, and Words & Sports Quarterly, among others. You can read more at erinhillstudio204.substack.com.