IN GOOD COMPANY

The four of us were draped across an Airbnb couch, fat and full of cheese, watching Home Alone: New York plastered onto the big-screen TV. December in New York has a way of making everything feel possible. Even for a bunch of 35+ women in sweatpants like us, surrounded by empty wine glasses and half-eaten tiramisu. I’d still have booked the trip even if no one else came. 

Maybe it would only happen this once, but celebrating the holidays with friends in the same life stage as me turned out to be one of my better ideas. And I’ve had a few.

We’d picked New York. Antonia lived here in her twenties during her FIT years. She was our unofficial tour guide and walking Yelp review. She and I grew up about an hour and a half away. A train ride to the city is practically a rite of passage for all New Englanders. Except for Katie, who’d barely traveled beyond the campgrounds of southwest Connecticut, who needed mild threats to commit. 

Yumei flew in from the Midwest. We met on Instagram a hundred years ago and Zoomed before nearly every Friday for two years, so I knew she wasn’t a catfish. We linked up at JFK for the first time. Just imagine two over-caffeinated women dragging too many bags running down the terminal squealing about how short I am and how tall she is.  

We took an Uber to Grand Central since neither of us were going to brave suitcases on the subway. The other two coconuts waited with bags, coats, and the gifts Antonia brought even though I begged her not to bring any. Friendsmas, we called it. No rules and no matching pajamas. Just dinner reservations at Shukette and the mutual understanding that we were rewriting the holiday playbook.

This trip technically started the year before. I’d like to think that Friendsmas was an idea that came on a whim and not the result of insensitive comments. Instead, we have dear Emily to partially thank, who sat across from me at a holiday dinner party.

I was a thirty-something and the only uncoupled person in the room. Not a horror story, but close. I’d considered skipping, but you can’t call out of a gathering planned six months in advance without becoming the pathetic single who’s also in a crisis.

I’d arrived ready for the interrogation: Why wasn’t I dating? Had I tried Bumble? (“Yes, Sarah, and I met a man who skipped the normal small talk and plunged straight into his ex wife leaving him for his cousin.”) The whole script was rehearsed. I came to the party laced with an excuse for nearly everything including one for why I wasn’t dating the guy I sort of had a thing with earlier in the year. 

Someone dealt a deck of cards for poker. I could at least win something with an ace in the hand and one on the table. It came down to me and Emily–engaged, smug, competitive–reeling in what could be called beginner's luck. Still, I won the hand. She threw down her cards, grabbed Danny’s face, shot me a look, and cooed, “I don’t need to win a card game. I already hit the jackpot.” 

The table laughed. I laughed too, because single women performing grace in public does not mean saying all the very rude retorts that popped into my head. Don’t let them know your weaknesses. And if they strike one, certainly don’t show it hurts. I stifled the nostril-flare, unclenched my jaw, and reached for my wine.

The entire drive home my foot was heavy on the gas as I replayed that comment. Pettiness never looks good on anyone. The fact that it bothered me as much as it did send me down a road of introspection that led to the only possible conclusion: I needed new friends.

Fast forward to September of the following year. I was power-walking through the neighborhood at dusk, earbuds in, fury leaking out of every exhale. Jessica had just called to announce her fourth pregnancy. She married at 22 to her first boyfriend and started having kids a minute afterwards. Not even thirty years old and lecturing me about life as if I were operating on half a brain cell. 

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she chirps. “Being a mom is better than being single, you know. And just imagineall the sex you’re missing.”

Sure, Jessica. I’ll take a seat here on my neighbor’s porch for a minute to imagine all the sex I’m missing. What was I even thinking, doing everything but getting married?

I could write a thesis on how society glorifies coupledom while treating independence like a waiting room. But right then, I wanted to hurl obscenities into the wind. Relationships are more than sex. They’re the day-to-day things. No one talks about how lonely the holidays can be for single people–not to mention how exhausting it is to do everything alone.

It’s not jealousy; it’s logistics. Buying double gifts on a single income. Carrying groceries without backup. No one to say, “I’ve got this, you relax.” I love my independence, but believe me, I would like a co-pilot. Someone to stop at the store to grab the eggs for the side dish I promised. Even better, someone to trade inside jokes with during a layover in Charlotte.Of course I think about these things.

I spent the rest of the walk agonizing about the holidays. Two couples orbiting the gatherings would be pregnant andopinionated that year. I was determined to book a trip anywhere to get out of town. Maybe I’d book a trip to Fiji, build houses for orphans, or at the very least, sit alone in a cabin in the middle of the woods. It didn’t matter where, I just knew it wouldn’t be for the annual dinner.

Picking up speed to a run, I realized I wasn’t angry at Christmas. I was angry at the conversations that came with it. And maybe–just maybe–the solution wasn’t to keep attending the same tables. 

Maybe it was time to build my own.

In all honesty, Emily, Jessica, and the rest of the peanut gallery didn’t mean to be patronizing. They’re still my people. They just haven’t been single in decades. Emily’s dated every man she’s ever met. I’m not sure she’s ever been single. Jessica married the first guy she’s ever dated. That’s great, I celebrate that. But they forget.

The only ones who didn’t forget were the satellites of my friend circle. The ones I knew but weren’t part of the main friend group. Yumei, Antonia, Katie–all of whom I’ve known for years but hadn’t been particularly close to. Yet we were all in the same life stage. If anyone understood, it was them. And that’s when it hit me. I didn’t need new friends. I just needed the right ones in the room. That’s when the idea popped into my head.

Yumei and I talked about a girls trip for a long time but never made formal plans. Katie was definitely in the same boat as me. She was on her third or fourth god-child and could use a day with adults. Antonia hadn’t been spontaneous in decades. If any of us needed a trip, it was her. Popping a U-Turn at the end of the street, I raced back to look at flights.

My first pitch was an Alaskan cruise–an optimistic fever dream that would’ve ended in mutiny. I pivoted to New York: familiar, central, easy to escape if things went south. The group chat was chaos: “Do we bring gifts?” “Is this a cult?” “Where will we stay?” 

I scheduled a Zoom to get everyone organized and to introduce faces beforehand. Three introverts and an extrovert pretending to be spontaneous needed a reality check before we did anything stupid. It was so awkward I nearly canceled the trip. But they did show up to the call–and extroverted Yumei was already sold–and that was all we needed.

Meeting in person felt like the pilot of a TV episode destined to be cancelled and then somehow renewed. Antonia, effortlessly chic as always. Yumei, armed with an arsenal of energy and asking where the nearest gym was. Katie, regretting she even left the house but trying her best. The Airbnb looked nothing like the apartments on Sex and the Cityor Friends, but it did have a sliver of holiday lights and it sat above a Chinese restaurant. Perfect.

We dumped our bags and raided Eataly for the epitome of girl dinner: an assortment of cheeses, olives slick with oil, imported Italian crackers, and a drawer-sized pan of Tiramisu. Then, an obligatory espresso and sidecar pistachio cream puff before heading off to Ten Ichi for sushi and poke bowls. We wandered the Union Square Holiday Market to score honey and chocolate chip cookies. 

By the end of the second night we were draped around the couches, wine glasses in hand, watching Home Alone and heckling Peter McCallister. Someone cried. Someone laughed until she snorted. Somewhere between the wine and the laughter, I found myself actually feeling festive for the first time in a long time. It was the best holiday gathering I’ve ever had.

Our last lunch before the airport was accidental perfection. A tiny café in Upper West, twinkling lights, and a cute waiter with sharp wit. We were tired but still a little sentimental. The conversation poured like good champagne–bad Tinder profiles, worse dates, and the weird grief of life taking a different route than expected. 

Something shifted. The collective exhale of women who had finally been seen. No one tried to fix anything. We just listened and nodded, not in a rehearsed prescriptive way, but out of understanding. The best therapy I’ve ever had came with bad coffee and three women who got tired of the big hairy BS.

The trip didn’t change our relationship statuses. We still went home to empty apartments and unwatered plants. But we also went home lighter. Seen. Connected. Happy.

There’s power in surrounding yourself with people who share your current season. It’s not exclusion. Married friends can love you deeply, but they can’t always speak your language. There’s a shorthand among people in your life stage tribe. Maybe it’s a raised eyebrow, a half-smile, or even an unspoken same here. For us, Friendsmas put together the parts of us that needed healing during some of the loneliest times of the year.

This year I’m happy to say I’ve found someone special. I’m not in the same life stage as I was last year, but I’m still planning a Friendsmas because this isn’t a stopgap ritual. It’s proof that joy doesn’t belong only to couples. We’ve even tossed around the idea of incorporating a group blind date night on our trip for those of us who are still single, just to see what happens. Worst case scenario, we have something to laugh about the rest of the trip.

For us, Friendsmas was the antidote to the season’s ruthless ache. A reminder that connection can still be curated. That waiting doesn’t mean standing still. Whatever next year looks like, I’ll keep this. The single season isn’t a curse. We need to start acting like it’s a chapter worth celebrating. 

Start by inviting the right people to the table.