The Glorious Peace of a Solitary Thanksgiving

You're allowed to be alone.

Photo by Nikhita Singhal on Unsplash

Here’s a little Thanksgiving post I was able to whip up this afternoon because I’m not cooking anything! I’m grateful every day for your support of my work. And today even more so.

Two years ago I wrote a post about the surprising comforts, even pleasures, of spending the holidays without family or even alone entirely. (I even did an audio version.) It resonated with more people than I expected it to, even (and maybe even especially) those knee-deep in negotiations with parents, in-laws, close and distant cousins, and various other configurations of blood, blood-adjacent, or blood-curdling relations.

Though I sometimes attend a Thanksgiving dinner at a friend’s place, (I am, in fact, doing that today, and happily so) I’ve also been known to sit out the day altogether. For years, I kept quiet about this or even resorted to vague fibs about “going to my aunt’s place,” though I have never had such an aunt. There is a reflexive human impulse to take pity on those who spend holidays alone. The prototypical image of it (picture someone gazing sadly out her window at the jovial scene on the other side of her neighbor’s window) is more or less the illustration accompanying the dictionary definition of loneliness. Or something that would be used in an advertisement for antidepressants.

But to me, solitary holidays are the definition of peace. And with every passing year, I feel more inclined to spread the gospel of this peace. It’s not right for everyone. (And whatever you do, don’t ask your doctor if it’s right for you. He or she will almost certainly say no.) But I daresay it’s right for more of us than is commonly realized. To put it bluntly, every year, I feel like I’m getting away with, if not murder, some kind of simple yet exceedingly high crime.

Whereas most people are fighting traffic and miserably congested airports (manned by miserable airline personnel who drew the short stick and didn’t get the day off) I’m taking a leisurely hike with my dog. Whereas most people will spend the weekend nursing tryptophan hangovers (and regular hangovers) and gritting their teeth through maddening political conversations and rehashings of old family grudges, I’ll be grazing from my tidy box of Friendsgiving leftovers and laughing at anonymous idiots on Twitter. And because I stopped drinking a few years ago, I won’t be hungover from anything.

Why am I telling you this? It’s not to gloat. It’s to remind anyone who might be teetering on the edge of pity—either for themselves or someone else—that one person’s ideal life can be another’s . . . well, if not nightmare, let’s say, object of least interest. When I walk through the park with my dog and see families with young children (or older children), I feel both glad for them and very glad not to be them. I know not all solo life travelers feel this way. There are plenty for whom this path is unchosen, uncomfortable, and a primary source of existential despair. I’m also painfully aware of the degree to which family estrangement is becoming increasingly common and, worse, perversely and infantilely reframed as a form of self-care.

But I’m not talking about that. To all for whom this applies, I’m talking about the great luck of being able to enjoy your own company. I’m talking about remembering to feel gratitude for that luck and, above all, permitting others to access that same gratitude if they’re so inclined.

How is this achieved? For starters, do not lie about your fake aunt. When someone asks you what you’re doing today, hold your head high and say “I’m doing absolutely nothing.” That look in the other person’s eye might be envy.

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