If you're listening to this,
There's a good chance you're facing Christmas in a way you never imagined you would.
Alone.
Maybe you've lost someone.
Maybe your children have grown and scattered to their own lives.
Maybe you're single and you're wondering how you'll get through Christmas Day alone when you see everyone else gathering together.
Maybe you've just gone through a relationship break-up.
Or this is your first Christmas alone after a divorce.
Or maybe you've chosen to be alone this year because being around others just feels too hard,
Too performative,
Too much.
I want you to know I understand.
Not theoretically.
Not from a book.
I understand because I've lived it.
Multiple versions of it,
Actually.
And I'm here to tell you that not only can you get through this,
But there's a path to something that might surprise you.
Peace.
Let me take you back to my first Christmas without my wife.
She had died at the age of 36,
Just six months before Christmas.
And suddenly,
I was trying to create Christmas magic alone for my children,
Who were still very young.
While every Christmas decoration,
Every tradition,
Every Christmas song on the radio felt like it was cutting me open.
I remember standing in the kitchen trying to cook the meals she used to make and just stopping.
Frozen.
Because the absence was so loud,
It drowned out everything else.
My children were excited.
Children are resilient that way.
But I could see it in their eyes,
Too.
Those moments when they'd look around the room searching for her,
Wondering why everything felt different.
The sadness that their mum was not still here with them.
And I had to hold it all.
My grief,
Their grief,
The pretense that we were okay.
The determination to not let death steal Christmas from them,
Too.
Those first few years were brutal,
If I'm honest.
I went through the motions.
We opened presents,
We ate,
We tried to laugh.
But underneath it all was this screaming awareness that someone was missing.
That the family we had been was broken.
And this was the new version.
And I didn't know how to accept it yet.
But here's what I learned slowly and painfully.
Grief doesn't ask permission.
It shows up whenever it wants.
And Christmas,
With all its expectations of joy and togetherness,
Can feel like it's mocking your pain.
But what I discovered is that you don't have to choose between honouring your grief and finding moments of peace.
You can hold both.
Year by year,
It got easier.
Not because I forgot her or because the loss mattered less,
But because I learned to make space for the complexity.
To let the sadness come when it needed to.
To also let in the laughter when my children did or said something funny.
To accept that Christmas would never be what it was,
But it could still be something.
Then my children grew up.
They left home,
Built their own lives and suddenly I was facing a different kind of alone.
Complete solitude at Christmas.
That first year after they'd gone,
I sat in my house on Christmas morning and thought,
What now?
I've no one to cook for,
No one to open presents with,
No traditions to uphold,
Just me and silence.
And I had to learn something crucial.
Being alone at Christmas doesn't mean you've failed.
It doesn't mean you're unloved.
It doesn't mean your life has gone wrong.
Sometimes it just is.
And once I stopped fighting that reality,
Once I stopped measuring my Christmas against everyone else's highlight reels on social media,
Something shifted.
I started to see what I'd been given instead of only what I'd lost.
So let me share with you some of the things that helped me.
Practical things you can actually do.
First,
Give yourself permission to do it differently.
You don't have to have a tree if it hurts too much.
You don't have to cook a big meal if you're the only one eating it.
You don't have to pretend to be cheerful if you're grieving.
Christmas doesn't have to look like the advertisements or like it used to.
Make it yours.
Maybe that means having your favourite takeaway and you're watching your favourite film.
Maybe it means going for a long walk in nature.
Maybe it means sleeping in and treating it like any other day.
There's no wrong way to survive it.
Second,
Create one small thing to look forward to.
Not a whole day of forced festivities,
Just one thing.
For me it became a really good cup of coffee in the morning and watching something I genuinely enjoyed.
No obligations,
No shoulds,
Just something that felt like a gift to myself.
It gave the day a shape without demanding I be something I wasn't.
Third,
Reach out,
Even just a little.
I know how isolating it feels and sometimes the last thing you want is to burden someone else with your loneliness.
But a text to a friend saying,
Thinking of you today,
Merry Christmas,
Or even joining an online community of others who are alone,
It helps.
You'd be amazed how many people are in the same boat,
Quietly struggling,
Wishing someone would say,
Me too.
Fourth,
Let the feelings come.
If you need to cry,
Cry.
If anger shows up,
Let it.
If you feel okay for a while and then suddenly don't,
That's normal.
Grief and loneliness aren't linear,
They don't follow a schedule.
The more you try to suppress it,
The heavier it gets.
I learned to just let it move through me.
To say out loud,
This is hard.
I miss her,
I wish things were different.
And somehow naming it took some of its power away.
Fifth,
Remember that this day will end.
Christmas is 24 hours,
That's it.
You don't have to sustain some performance of okayness for weeks.
You just have to get through today.
And then tomorrow comes,
The pressure lifts,
And life goes back to normal.
Sometimes just knowing there's an end point helps you breathe.
And finally,
Know that you're stronger than you think.
The fact that you're here,
Listening to this,
Means you're still showing up for yourself,
You haven't given up.
And that matters more than you know.
I'm not going to tell you that being alone at Christmas is wonderful.
I'm not going to dress it up as some kind of spiritual opportunity that you should be grateful for.
Sometimes it just hurts.
Sometimes it's lonely and hard,
And you'd give anything to have things be different.
But I am going to tell you that you can survive it.
That it won't always feel this heavy.
That there's a version of you on the other side of this season who's learned something about resilience,
About self-compassion,
And about what really matters.
You are going to be okay.
Now let's take a moment together.
Wherever you are right now,
Just take a slow,
Deep breath in and let it out.
Feel your body exactly where it is.
Your feet on the ground,
Your back against the chair.
The weight of you.
Here.
Present.
Alive.
You've carried so much.
You've survived so much.
And you're still here.
Place one hand on your heart if that feels comfortable.
Feel it beating.
That steady rhythm that hasn't stopped.
Even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
Say to yourself,
Quietly or out loud,
I am enough.
Just as I am right now.
Whatever this Christmas brings,
Grief or peace,
Loneliness or quiet contentment,
Or all of it mixed together,
You have everything you need to meet it.
You are not alone in your aloneness.
Thousands of people are sitting right where you are,
Feeling what you feel.
And we're all doing the best we can.
Take one more deep breath,
And let it out.
You've got this.
