What Do The Lonely Do At Christmas
- Dr. Shari Nicole
- Dec 25, 2025
- 11 min read
The question isn't rhetorical. It's real. Before we start, could you do something for me?
Take a breath. Not a performative, self-care-Instagram breath. A real one. The kind that acknowledges you clicked on this article for a reason. Maybe your loneliness led you here.
Maybe you’ve been feeling lonely this season and couldn’t quite name it. Or maybe you’ve been pushing the loneliness down, telling yourself you should be more grateful, more present, more something.
This isn’t going to be an article that tells you how to fix your loneliness with 5 easy steps. It’s not going to give you a gratitude practice or a mindfulness exercise that makes everything better. Sorry, not sorry.
This is an article about sitting with what’s real. About naming the loneliness that shows up during the holidays, especially the kind that doesn’t fit the neat narratives we tell about who’s lonely and why.
So before you keep reading, I want to ask you a question. And I want you to actually answer it, even if just to yourself:
What kind of lonely are you this Christmas?
Are you the kind of lonely that comes from physical distance? Someone you love is far away and won’t be home for the holidays?
Are you the kind of lonely that comes from loss? Someone you loved is gone and this is your first Christmas without them, or your fifth, or your twentieth, and it still aches?
Are you the kind of lonely that comes from transition? You’re between chapters, between versions of yourself, and the people around you can’t quite see who you’re becoming?
Are you the kind of lonely that comes from not fitting? You’re in the room but not quite of the room, different in ways that are hard to explain and harder to bridge?
Or are you carrying a loneliness that doesn’t have a category yet? Something you can’t quite articulate but feel in your chest every time someone asks “So, what are your plans for the holidays?”
Whatever your answer is, know it’s valid. It’s real. And you’re not alone.
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My Loneliness Has a Name This Year
I’ll tell you mine, and maybe it’ll help you name yours. If you’ve been reading, you know my fiancé is in Zanzibar and I’m sitting at my mom’s in Louisiana. He doesn’t celebrate Christmas. I do.
This Christmas Eve morning, I woke up before the sun. Not for the usual traditions with my mom and sister. Not for the slow breakfast, Christmas music, and the easy laughter and the rituals we’ve built over decades.
I woke up in the dark to video call my future sisters-in-law in Zanzibar about wedding to-dos. Because of the 8-hour time difference, my Christmas Eve morning is their evening. And if we’re going to plan a wedding across continents, someone’s sleep schedule has to bend.
So I missed breakfast. I missed the morning I’ve had every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember. I sat in a dark room with my laptop while my family started their day without me, talking to women I’m still getting to know, planning in a language I’m still learning, about a wedding that’s happening on the other side of the world. This is the type of lonely many people don’t understand. At times, I find myself still trying to understand it myself.
When my family gathers for our annual Christmas Eve party, there will be an empty seat. A visceral missing. When someone asks, “Where’s your fiancé?” I’ll explain. Again. About the distance. About the cultural difference. About how we’re building a bicultural, bi-continental life that makes sense to us, but sounds complicated to everyone else.
Some days I’m clear about what I’m doing. Others, I’m wondering if loving someone 7,000 miles away who doesn’t celebrate the holiday that’s consuming my family’s entire December is more than I can handle.
Almost as though it was waiting to make its appearance. Loneliness showed up at Christmas this year. Not because I’m doing something wrong, but because I’m in transition. Between worlds. Between the life I had and the one I’m building. Between who I was and who I’m becoming.
And I’m learning this kind of loneliness (the loneliness of becoming) is more common than we admit.
Maybe your loneliness looks different than mine. Maybe you’re grieving. Maybe you just moved. Maybe you’re newly single or newly sober or newly committed to boundaries that are making the holidays more complicated than they used to be.
But if you’re here, you know what it feels like to be lonely during a season when everyone expects you to be merry. And you know how isolating it is to carry that loneliness alone.
So let’s not do that. Let’s name it. Let’s sit with it. And let’s talk about what we actually do with it when it shows up at Christmas.
The Loneliness We Don’t Talk About
There are kinds of loneliness that don’t fit the narrative we talk about during the holidays. We talk about people who are alone. We talk about how to cope if you don’t have family nearby. But what about the rest of us?
What about when you’re grieving, and everyone else is celebrating?
Maybe you lost someone this year. Or maybe you lost a version of yourself. The marriage that ended, the job you thought was secure, the future you had planned that didn’t work out. And here comes Christmas asking you to show up with a smile, to not “bring down” the celebration, to participate in joy you’re not feeling.
That’s lonely.
What about when you don’t fit the mold anymore?
Maybe you’re single, and everyone else is partnered. Maybe you’re child-free by choice, and everyone keeps asking when you’ll have kids. Maybe you moved away from your hometown, and now you’re “the one who left.” Maybe you’re the only one in your family who went to therapy, who’s setting boundaries, who’s choosing differently.
You’re at the table. But you’re not quite at the table. And nobody knows what to do with that. That's also lonely.
What about when you’re in transition, and nobody can see it?
New city. New job. New relationship status. New version of yourself that you’re still figuring out. The holidays arrive expecting you to slot into old patterns, old dynamics, old versions of who you were. But you’re different now. And that difference, even when it’s good, even when it’s your choice, is isolating. Yep, lonely.
I don’t know which one you’re carrying. Maybe it’s one of these. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But I’m learning that loneliness during the holidays isn’t always about being alone. Sometimes it’s about being in the middle. The middle of family that feels out of touch, friends that don’t see you, or like me, in the middle of becoming. And the middle doesn’t have a script yet.
If you’re lonely this season, I see you. Drop a 🕯️or a comment below. Let’s remind each other: we’re not alone in this becoming.
What This Loneliness Is Teaching Me
I used to think loneliness meant I was doing something wrong. If I felt lonely at a family gathering, it meant I wasn’t grateful enough. If I felt lonely while building this relationship across continents, it meant maybe I’d made the wrong choice. If I felt lonely while everyone else seemed fine, it meant I was the problem. I’m still in the middle of this. I don’t have a neat conclusion or a moment where everything clicked into place. But I’m realizing:
The holidays make everything louder. If you’re grieving, if you’re transitioning, if you’re different from everyone around you, Christmas amplifies all of it. That’s not a personal failing. That’s just how it works. The holidays are designed to bring people together, which means they also highlight every way you don’t quite fit into the traditional expectations.
Loneliness doesn’t mean you’re alone. I can be in a room full of people I love and still feel lonely. Because loneliness isn’t really about physical proximity. It’s about emotional distance. It’s about not being fully seen or understood in moments when everyone else seems to be.
Loneliness doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. More often, it means you’re in transition. You’re growing. You’re changing. You’re building something new. And growth is lonely because you’re becoming someone your old life can’t fully hold anymore.
Loneliness doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. Loneliness at Christmas has a way of making us question our decisions, as if discomfort is proof of failure. But loneliness is not evidence that you chose the wrong path, loved the wrong person, or built the wrong life. Often, it appears not because something is broken, but because something is unfinished. It shows up in the space between what was familiar and what has not yet fully formed. You can be deeply aligned and still ache.
Missing what you had doesn’t mean you regret what you’re building. You can miss the simplicity of knowing what your Christmas and holiday season will look like and enjoy the newness of a different tradition. You can miss the smell of a loved one’s cooking and still find excitement in cooking a new recipe. I can miss Christmas mornings when my biggest decision was what to wear before the guests arrive, and still be excited about the future I’m creating. Both are true.
Let’s soften your inner narrative about what loneliness is teaching you. Take some time to think about this: What story am I telling myself about what this loneliness “means” about me?
Strategies That Are Actually Helping Me Manage
Look, I’m not going to give you a five-step plan to eliminate loneliness. That’s not how this works. But I can tell you what’s been helping me move through it instead of drowning in it. What’s helping me hold the loneliness without letting it convince me I’m doing everything wrong.
Make the loneliness less abstract
Loneliness is easier to manage when you can name what it actually is.
I sat down with my journal and wrote: “I’m lonely because my fiancé is thousands of miles away celebrating a regular day while I’m trying to explain to everyone our life plan.” That’s specific. That’s real. And weirdly, naming it that specifically made it feel less overwhelming.
Try it. Fill in the blank: “I’m lonely because _______.” Not “I’m just feeling off” or “the holidays are hard.” Get specific. What exactly is making you lonely this season?
Sometimes just seeing it on paper helps you realize it’s not some vague, unfixable sadness. It’s a specific thing you’re navigating. And specific things can be tended to.
Decrease what’s making it worse
I stopped forcing myself to do things that were amplifying the loneliness.
I said no to certain parties because I knew it would make me feel more alone, not less. I limited my time with the family member who keeps asking invasive questions about my relationship. I stopped scrolling Instagram during family gatherings when everyone’s posting perfect holiday photos.
Ask yourself: What’s making this worse? What obligations, gatherings, conversations, or habits are feeding the loneliness instead of helping?
You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to protect yourself. You’re allowed to opt out of things that are draining you.
Increase what actually helps
This is the flip side. What actually makes you feel less alone? For me, it’s texting my friend who’s in a bi-cultural marriage, living in a foreign country. It’s the morning walks with my dog where I let myself think about everything I’m carrying. It’s the video calls with my fiancé where we’re both just existing in the same digital space, not trying to make it more than it is.
What’s your version of that? Maybe it’s calling the friend who doesn’t try to fix you. Maybe it’s journaling. Maybe it’s the therapist or the online community where people get what you’re going through.
Do more of that. Protect time for it. Don’t treat it as optional.
Create a small ritual that acknowledges what you’re carrying
A friend gave me an “I Do” candle that I light on especially hard days and think about my fiancé while I do it. It’s small. It’s simple. But it reminds me that even though he’s not here, this relationship is real. This love is real. This loneliness is temporary.
What’s your version? If you’re grieving, maybe you set a place at the table for who you lost. Maybe you play their favorite song. Maybe you write them a letter.
If you’re in transition, maybe you journal about who you’re becoming. Maybe you create a vision board for next year. Maybe you just acknowledge out loud: “This is hard. I’m in the middle. And that’s okay.”
Small rituals won’t fix the loneliness. But they help you hold it with more grace.
Remember, this is temporary
Some moments at Christmas are fine. Some are good, even. And some are hard. I’m learning that I don’t have to love every moment. I don’t have to be fully present for every tradition. I don’t have to prove I’m handling this well.
Yesterday I smiled while shopping for gifts with my family. Today I cried in the shower. Tomorrow I might do both. All of it is allowed.
Next December will be different. I don’t know how yet. But I know it won’t be this exact configuration of loneliness.
Maybe I’ll be in Zanzibar navigating Christmas from the other side. Maybe we’ll have figured out how to be in the same place. Maybe I’ll have built a community of people who understand bicultural relationships. Maybe the loneliness will still be there, but I’ll know how to hold it better.
I don’t know. But I know it will shift.
This chapter, this lonely, in-between, figuring-it-out chapter, it’s not forever. And that helps. Not in a “just get through it” way. But in a “this is teaching me something, and I won’t be in this exact place again” way.
If this season feels quieter or heavier than you expected, and you don’t want to carry it alone, I’m holding space for reflection and steady support. There’s no pressure and no fixing, just a place to be met exactly where you are.
So, What Do the Lonely Do
So, what do the lonely do at Christmas? I can only tell you what I’m doing. What I’m learning to do.
I’m showing up. For the family gatherings, even when the empty seat hurts. For the video calls, even when the time difference is terrible.
I’m telling the truth. To at least one person. Sometimes to my family. Always to myself. “This is hard. I’m lonely. I’m managing, but I’m not fine.”
I’m creating small moments that feel true. A candle. A walk. A song. A text to someone who gets it. Something that says “I see what I’m carrying, and I’m not pretending it’s not there.“
I’m protecting my energy. Saying no when I need to. Taking breaks when the performing gets too exhausting. Letting myself cry without apologizing for it.
I’m building toward something even though I can’t see it clearly yet. Trusting that this loneliness (this hard, heavy, holiday loneliness) is part of the story. Not the end of it.
And I’m trying to be gentle with myself. Because loneliness doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong. It means I’m in the middle of something. And middles are always the hardest part.
If You’re Lonely Too
I don’t know what your loneliness looks like. I don’t know if it’s grief or distance or transition or just the weight of becoming someone new while everyone around you expects you to stay the same.
But I know it’s real. And I know it’s hard. And I know you’re probably trying to pretend it’s not as bad as it is because you don’t want to be dramatic or ungrateful or too much during the holiday season.
So here’s what I want you to know: Your loneliness is valid. Even if you “chose this.” Even if other people have it worse. Even if you’re surrounded by people who love you.
You’re allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to miss what you had while building something new. You’re allowed to feel out of place, unseen, between chapters.
And you’re allowed to be honest about it. With yourself. With someone you trust. With the empty page, if that’s all you have right now.
Because loneliness in the middle of becoming isn’t a sign you’re failing. It’s a sign you’re brave enough to grow. To change. To build something that doesn’t fit the mold everyone else recognizes.
This season is hard. And it’s temporary. Both are true. Next year will be different. The grief might be less sharp. The transition might be further along. The distance might be closed. You might have found your people. But this year, you’re in the waiting. And the waiting is lonely.
If Christmas feels lonely this year, it doesn’t mean you are broken.
You are still becoming.
If the quiet of this season is asking something of you, and you’d rather not navigate it alone, I’m offering gentle, intentional support for those in transition. No urgency, just an open door if and when it feels right.
You don’t need a complete life overhaul. You need one intentional choice today. One moment where you pause and ask yourself: Is this my choice or someone else’s? Is this my path or the one I inherited?
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