Christmas, Alone — And Why That Matters

It’s Christmas Day, and I’ll be alone for most of it.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a poor me way. Just… alone.
My son is a grown man now. He hasn’t spoken to me in years, and that’s something he’s decided is best for him. I respect that. I hope he’s healthy. I hope he’s building something that matters to him.
My parents are gone.
Tracey is gone.
One sister lives north; I haven’t seen her in years.
The other I haven’t seen since she was a toddler. She’s in her thirties now, living her own life on the east coast.
Everyone looks like they’re doing okay. Careers, kids, movement, purpose. I’m genuinely glad for them. Everyone has problems—no illusion there—but they have momentum. They have people.
I have good friends. Real ones. Some are as close as family gets. But they have their own families, their own kids, their own traditions today. And that’s how it should be.
So holidays aren’t really holidays for me anymore.
And I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing it because I remember what it was like to grow up with seasonally timed family days—when the calendar itself told you to slow down and sit with your people. I miss that more than I miss anything specific.
Here’s why I’m saying all this:
If you still have your family
If your relationships are still intact
If the people you love are still a phone call away
Don’t let stupid shit rob you of time with them.
Pride. Old arguments. Being “right.” Resentments you don’t even remember the origin of. Texts left unsent. Calls you’ll “make later.” Years slipping by because everyone assumed there would be more time.
There isn’t.
People die. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes slowly.
You will die. I will die.
Time is the only thing you never get refunded.
Love should be lived slowly.
Meals. Conversations. Laughter. Even the awkward silences. Especially the boring moments you think don’t matter—because those are the ones you’ll ache for later.
If you can sit in a room today with people who know your history, your face, your childhood voice—do it. If there’s someone you haven’t talked to because of something that doesn’t actually matter anymore, swallow your ego and reach out.
Memento mori.
Remember that this ends.
And remember that when it’s gone, it’s gone for good.
No amount of success, clarity, or hindsight brings people back into the room.
If you’re lucky enough to not be alone today—
slow down.
Put the phone down.
Be present.
And tell your people you love them while you still can.