Where to put Lotte? How my first solo Christmas stressed out my friends

This year, for the third year in a row, I spent Christmas Eve with my kids—and then I was on my own over Christmas. Why? Because I chose to be.

I’ve been through an ugly breakup and cut off contact with my parents. Big family gatherings are off the table, so Christmas happens on a smaller scale. What that feels like for me? Let me explain.

Christmas used to be a huge production in our house. In the years leading up to it, I regularly stressed myself out big time: weeks of overthinking what on earth I could give my father, hours of computer work on lovingly designed family photo albums, wrapping mountains of presents, last-minute errands in packed department stores—and, not least, hoping everyone would behave and no one would start a fight. On top of that, the annual debate: where are we meeting this year? If I’d drawn the short straw, our house would be so full there weren’t enough plates or chairs.

Then, as darkness fell on Christmas Eve, the front door would open and a whole crowd would storm into my home. Suddenly it was unbearably loud. One person wanted a Coke, the next needed a nap, the third didn’t want sauce, and the fourth had already knocked over another glass. Music was playing in the background, it was way too hot, the mood was overstimulated, everyone was somehow busy with themselves—and in the end, someone always wanted to sing karaoke. The last time, my parents fled the house at some point—forgetting all the presents.

With a bit of distance, I know this now: I was constantly trying to please everyone. I physically cringe when I think about how stressed I was. And I cringe again when I realize how much of it was self-inflicted. To hell with perfectionism and that love-equals-performance nonsense.

As so often, I’d kept my Christmas frustration to myself and hardly told my friends anything about it. So when my first solo Christmas was coming up, confusion was inevitable.

I spent Christmas Eve with my kids first. We sang under the tree, unwrapped presents, and played for another half hour—until the doorbell rang at exactly 5:00 p.m. My ex picked up the kids, took them to his place and his new girlfriend, and continued the gift-opening marathon there. At 5:01 p.m., the house went completely quiet. I sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. Everything was going according to plan.

The peace didn’t last long, though. At 5:05 p.m., the first friend called. In a choked-up voice, she asked how I was doing and whether I felt lonely. “Good, and no,” I said dryly and gently shut her down. Twenty minutes later, the next one called and even threatened to swing by spontaneously with a bottle of crémant. “Absolutely not,” I said, a touch too annoyed, and kept poking until she admitted that my friends were genuinely worried about me behind my back.

Where to Put Lotte—a nod to the Christmas book Where to Put Grandma—was the name of the WhatsApp group where my friends were feverishly searching for solutions to my supposed Christmas misery. In the end, they decided to call me every hour in shifts. For emergencies, there was even a designated sober driver who would bring everyone over to my place if things got really bad. It honestly touched me. What a loving Christmas gift.

I assured my friend that I was fine, hung up, paused for a moment, and looked around. On the screen, Emily in Paris was flirting with the handsome chef, I was wrapped up in my weighted blanket, a bowl of my favorite chips sat on my lap, and the Christmas tree was glowing. This was exactly how I’d imagined the moment—and I’d prepared everything just in case Christmas loneliness decided to ambush me.

Should I be sad right now? I checked in with myself. Nothing. Just to be safe, I waited another moment. Still nothing. I simply wasn’t sad.

So I grabbed my phone, thanked my friends, wished them a Merry Christmas—and turned it off. That evening belonged to me alone, Emily, and Paris. I enjoyed it very much.

After three years, I can say this: I like my solo Christmas. I like the quiet, the candles, the show, the chips, and the certainty that no one wants to sing karaoke. Yes, sometimes I miss my family. Sometimes I miss the feeling of earlier years, the idea of Christmas as it was once meant to be. But then I think of the stress, the constant functioning, the endless effort to please everyone—and I’m infinitely grateful that I don’t have to do that right now. The holiday of love has taken on a new meaning for me. Above all, I’m grateful for my friends, who want to catch me even when I’m not falling. The WhatsApp group, by the way, has since been deleted. Lotte doesn’t need to go anywhere.

P.S. Take three guesses what I’m doing on New Year’s Eve…