Christmas Alone

There are days when I feel completely content with being single—deeply grounded, steady, and confident in where I am in life. But today wasn’t one of those days. Today, as I pulled the Christmas tree out of storage and untangled the lights, that sense of contentment slipped. The house felt too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes the walls feel closer than they should. And in that moment, I didn’t just feel alone—I felt as if this might always be my life.

I’m not sure where that weight came from. Maybe it drifted in with the cold air when I opened the door. Maybe it was hiding in the bottom of the ornament box. It surprised me, honestly. One minute I was ready to decorate, and the next I was staring at the tree wondering why this simple tradition made me feel so hollow. But feelings don’t always ask permission before they show up. Sometimes they just sit beside you and refuse to leave until you acknowledge them.

As I stood there, I realized something important—maybe this feeling is okay. Maybe contentment doesn’t mean I’ll be perfectly fine every single day. Maybe being strong and independent doesn’t mean I won’t have moments of loneliness or moments when I wish someone else were here to hand me an ornament or complain about the lights not working. Being content doesn’t cancel out being human.

And honestly, that realization took some pressure off. Instead of fighting the loneliness, I let it exist. But I also reminded myself that there are parts of being single that deserve to be appreciated—even when the loneliness sneaks in. So this year, I changed everything. I put the tree in a completely different spot. I rearranged the decorations. I made choices I’ve never made before simply because I could. If I had a partner, I might’ve had to compromise, negotiate, or keep things “the same as every year.” But this year, the holiday space is fully mine.

As I stepped back and looked at the finished tree, something in me softened. The loneliness didn’t magically disappear, but the room felt warmer, more alive, more me. I created that. I shaped this moment, this space, this tradition. And there’s a quiet kind of strength in that—building a life, even in small ways, with your own two hands.

Next year, I might have someone standing next to me. Or I might still be doing this alone. I don’t know. None of us do. But what I do know is that both versions of my life are okay. Both are valid. Both can still be full of joy, meaning, and growth. And for now, tonight, the tree is glowing, the room feels peaceful, and I’m learning that even in the lonely moments, I can still create something beautiful.