Christmas is meant to be magical. Joyful. Full of warmth, laughter, and togetherness. But for many single parents, it’s not.
For many, Christmas is heavy.
I know this feeling because I lived it.
For six Christmases, I was a single parent and I found them incredibly hard.
Not just because of the financial strain – though that was real and constant. The pressure of buying presents, stretching money that simply wasn’t there, trying to make Christmas feel special while silently worrying about January.
But what hurt most was watching my children try to make sense of something they couldn’t understand.
They would come home from school talking about other children in their class. Children who were always in trouble, always misbehaving – who seemed to receive so much at Christmas. Endless presents. Big gifts. Things my boys could only dream of.
And my boys were kind. Gentle. Well behaved.
They couldn’t understand why Santa seemed to reward others more.
In that moment, Christmas stopped feeling magical.
I hated having to lie to them.
I hated seeing doubt creep into their little faces.
I hated the idea that they might think they’d done something wrong, that they weren’t “good enough” for Santa.
From that moment on, the whole Santa story felt cruel rather than joyful.
But Christmas Eve was the hardest part of all.
My boys were tiny then – going to bed early, full of excitement, while I stayed up alone.
No one to talk to.
No one to share Santa’s mince pie and milk with.
No one to laugh with as I tiptoed around the house.
No one to help sneak presents under the tree.
Just silence.
I chose to stay in our own home rather than with family – not because I didn’t need support, but because my boys were going back and forth between houses, and I wanted consistency. I wanted them sleeping in their own beds, feeling safe and settled, rather than introducing yet another place to sleep.
So I stayed.
And I cried.
I sat there feeling empty, isolated, unseen.
And if you’re reading this and that feeling feels familiar, please know this:
You are not weak.
You are not failing.
And you are not alone.
Christmas can amplify loneliness in a way nothing else does.
And my heart truly goes out to every single parent who finds this season emotionally challenging.
And I also want you to hear this…
It will not always be this way.
I know it might feel impossible to believe that right now but please hold this truth gently.
This year marks ten years since I met my husband, Adam.
And my life transformed in ways I never could have imagined during those lonely Christmas Eves.
But that love didn’t come quickly.
And it didn’t come easily.
Before Adam, there were six years alone.
When my first marriage ended unexpectedly, my world collapsed overnight. I had two tiny boys – one just ten weeks old, the other twenty months – and I’d only just moved into what I believed was our forever family home.
I had signed the mortgage papers believing we were building a life together.
Instead, I found myself a single mother of two babies, broken and struggling.
Those first two years were the hardest of my life.
I was at rock bottom.
I felt worthless.
Unlovable.
Certain I would never meet anyone again.
Dating with young children felt impossible, surviving each day was hard enough. But deeper than that were the scars heartbreak had left behind: the fear, the resentment, the loss of trust, and a deep belief that maybe this was all life had for me.
But somewhere in the middle of all that pain, I made a decision.
Not to date. Not to “move on”.
But to heal.
I spent five years focusing on myself and my boys.
I faced my hurt.
I questioned my beliefs about what I deserved.
I learned to set boundaries.
I slowly rebuilt my self-worth.
And I began to believe that healthy, respectful love might exist… and that I might be worthy of it.
Then, five years later, while working at a British Triathlon training camp in Portugal, I met Adam.
From the very first moment, I knew he was different.
Kind.
Respectful.
Thoughtful.
Over the last ten years, he has shown up again and again – not just for me, but for our boys. Fully. Consistently. With love.
He is a wonderful husband and an incredible dad.
But perhaps most importantly, Adam was the first person who loved me for me – not for what I gave, fixed, or sacrificed.
He didn’t love me for filling gaps or soothing insecurities.
He simply loved me.
And that kind of love only became possible because I had first learned to love and value myself.
So if you’re reading this during a hard Christmas – sitting alone, holding it together for your children, feeling exhausted, heartbroken, or unseen, please hear this:
This chapter is not your whole story.
There is life beyond this season.
There is love beyond this loneliness.
There is joy waiting for you that you cannot yet imagine.
For now, be gentle with yourself.
You are doing something incredibly brave.
And one day, I promise that Christmas will feel different.
With so much love and understanding,
Rhi ❤️