Home for the Holidays (Or Not).

HEALING

6 MIN READ

Distance from family can take on so many forms. Sometimes it’s the miles that separate us: a college campus, a new city, a job opportunity too good to pass up. Other times, it’s emotional—a subtle decision to step away, to protect ourselves from unhealthy relations, to choose peace over proximity.

The holidays arrive every year, like a relentless time loop. For some, this season feels like a warm hug—a reunion with people who feel like home, family traditions steeped in love and history. For others, it feels like a hollow ache, a reminder of everything we no longer—or maybe never—had.

When you don’t have family—or when the family you have feels more like a painful memory than a foundation—the holidays become something you endure rather than celebrate. The emotions seem to pile on quicker, and heavier. Even if you tell yourself it’s just another Thursday or that Christmas is just a capitalist construct, the world doesn’t seem let you forget how lonely you are.

If you’ve ever spent the holidays scrolling through group texts about travel itineraries or the debate on which Auntie should be trusted with the mac and cheese, or all of the Instagram stories—so many damn Instagram stories— that are filled with tables crammed full of food and faces that scream happy-family-ad. If you’ve ever sat at an empty table, trying to convince yourself that takeout is still festive, you know the what I’m talking about.

The world around us hums with togetherness, and we’re here, on the outside looking in, wondering if this is the part where we’re supposed to start feeling lonely.

No matter what has created the space, it’s okay to feel everything that comes with it. The nostalgia, the longing, the guilt, and yes, the relief. It’s messy and complicated, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to sit with all of it, without needing to fix or justify a single thing

Because the truth is; family is more than the people we’re born to. It’s the people we choose and who continue to choose us back. The ones who see us fully and the ones who love us fiercely.

And sometimes, family is just you, learning to love yourself in a way no one ever taught you.

When the holidays stop being about the family you came from, they can start being about the family you choose. The partner who knows how you like your coffee. The friends who feel like sisters. The coworker who says, “Come to my place, there’s always enough.”

Starting your own traditions doesn’t mean forgetting the past—it means letting go of the grip it has on you.

Maybe it’s Friendsgiving with mismatched plates and a chicken because you have no idea how to cook a turkey. Maybe it’s a movie marathon in pajamas on Christmas Eve, or maybe the ‘cousin walk’ through the quiet streets of your neighborhood before dinner is spent with new friendships.

Your new traditions don’t have to look like anyone else’s. They just have to feel like yours.

The holidays aren’t about performing happiness for everyone else. They’re not about big gestures or picture-perfect moments. They’re about love—the love we give, the love we share, and the love we deserve. So, whether you’re surrounded by people, alone in your apartment, or somewhere in between, know this: you’re not missing out.

You’re living your story, your way.

And that, more than anything, is worth celebrating.

So gather the people you love—even if it’s just one or two.

Light a candle.

Pour a drink.

Sing off-key to your favorite holiday song all day.

And eat whatever the f*ck you want.

Because home isn’t always where you came from. Sometimes, it’s where you’re going.

And for those celebrating with angels in the sky:
There’s a different kind of table some of us are sitting at this year—the one with empty chairs and quiet spaces where their laughter used to live. The holidays don’t stop when someone you love is gone, but they do shift. They ask you to carry a weight that feels impossible and still, somehow, keep going.

But allow the memories to flood in. Light a candle for them, tell that story they loved so much, cry if you need to—laugh if you can.

Grief doesn’t ask you to perform. It just asks you to feel. And maybe that feeling is bittersweet, but it’s still yours. And it’s still love, just reshaped.

Maybe this season isn’t about moving on. Maybe it’s about carrying them forward—in the ways that make sense for you.

Whatever that looks like, it’s enough.

And you’re enough. <3