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For two of the last three Thanksgivings, I spent the holiday week alone with my dog, and it was magical. Sally was old and sick with a heart condition that prohibited her from flying; staying home meant my partner could fly to California to see his family, and I could see mine over the Christmas holiday just a few weeks later.
I spent those two Thanksgiving weeks doing puzzles, watching movies, reading books, petting the goats, cuddling Sally, and admiring the pinky orange light bouncing off the creek as the sun set. I had breakfast for dinner every night, and the closest I got to a turkey was the bird my neighbor across the street has screeching around his yard.
In contrast to what I dubbed “Alonesgiving,” last year, my good friend Nick flew out from New York and spent the week with Sally and me. We did all the same things I’d done the previous years, except he made a turkey, and I beat him in Scrabble because he knows how to cook and I’ve memorized a lot of high-value two and three letter words. It was one of the best weeks of my year.
I could have flown down to see my family this year—Sally is sadly gone, and our new dog appears to be far more physically and emotionally resilient than her predecessor, but I never truly considered it. For one thing: two round-trip flights in two months? What am I, a Rockefeller? More importantly, I wanted another Nicksgiving.
I’ve never been a Thanksgiving person. The holiday mostly revolves around food I can’t eat (due to digestive disorders and colon surgeries) and drinks I can’t drink (due to alcoholism). But the truth is more complex than just the food and drink of it all: I love being home. I love being out of the fray. I love having zero obligations and catching up with a friend I never get to see. I love petting the goats, watching the sun set, and not answering questions about Substack’s viability as a source of income.
In college, I considered myself an extrovert because large groups of people and large quantities of alcohol tended to be at the same location. I told myself that socializing was my motivation for going out every night; deep down, I knew it had more to do with what I’d find at a party, not who.
Note: No newsletter next week, but I’m always open to questions and feedback for future posts.
Now, I live in rural Washington, and my social life is small. This concerns people. Intellectually, I understand why—I’m a science journalist who writes about mental health and addiction. I know we are social creatures and need other people. I know people with addiction or in recovery tend to isolate, and I know how dangerous the results of that self-imposed isolation can be. I really do get it. The problem is, when it comes to myself, I don’t feel it.
When I was doing Alonesgiving, I’m pretty sure the only thing that kept my loved ones from calling the police to do a welfare check was the fact that I still answered my phone. (If you’re wondering if there’s a not-alarming way to tell people you’re spending Thanksgiving alone with your dog and four goats, I can assure you, there’s not.) There are still people who think the whole Nicksgiving thing is weird, but I think they’re less concerned about my safety than they were when I was totally alone, which is something.
This post was supposed to be about feeling empowered to say no to holiday events you don’t want to attend, or at least about the difference between harmful isolation and setting boundaries. But the truth is, I don’t know what the right balance is for anyone else. For some people, attending that post-Thanksgiving potluck even when they don’t feel like it is the right call. Socializing can often be like the gym: you don’t want to go, it sucks when you’re there, but eventually you’re glad you went. But it’s also okay if you’d rather be at home in fuzzy slippers with your dog. (I genuinely think having animals makes a difference here because when I’m with my dog, I don’t feel alone, but others may not need that.)
There’s a fine line between taking well-intentioned advice and shapeshifting into what someone else thinks you should be. For me, recovery is the process of getting to know myself without alcohol, so I can figure out what the life I want to live looks like and be clear-eyed and capable enough to grow in that direction.
What I’ve learned over the past three Non-Thanksgivings is how much I treasure a serene, largely solitary break on this particular holiday. I’ve also learned that by the end of the week, I am extremely excited about Christmas. Come December 1st, I’m elated at the prospect of seeing my ever-expanding extended family, buying too many presents for my nieces and my friends’ kids, and planning as many visits with hometown pals as I can squeeze into the week.
Before I can get there, I need to do a few things. I need to eat breakfast for dinner several evenings in a row, pet animals, play Scrabble, watch bad TV and good movies, look for deer, and watch the sunset cast pink and orange light over the creek.
It may be weird, it may be misanthropic, it may even be a little bit selfish. I can’t wait.
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I’m not a doctor or mental health professional, so my advice shouldn’t be construed as medical or therapeutic. You are free to take or leave it.
I have no problem telling friends and family that I want a quiet holiday at home with my 3cats, a good book, and Star Trek.
What you wrote today resonates so much because 3 of our 5 immediate family members (you know one of them) and both of our dogs need a good amount of alone time and are true introverts. Every year it's a discussion as to whether we join the big family turkey day despite the fact that I host Christmas Eve for what feels like thousands of people (roughly 23). But over the past few years I've seen how integral it is to their mental health (and, indirectly, mine) to just hang out on Thanksgiving and toss my guilt over the larger family stuff. We've always thought it was a BS holiday anyway, based on untruths, so hanging together with just our five plus two canines, often wandering into our own books, or tv shows, or even other rooms alone, is perfectly fine, and something for which I am grateful. Happy Nicksgiving! And you should consider writing a book, btw.