In Defense of the Cat Ladies at Christmas: Loneliness, Christmas Eve, and the women we mock.

During the holidays I’m sharng a personal essays— after Jan. 1, I intend to revert back to my usual combo of business-culture-France-observations.

In recent years, I’ve noticed an uptick in vitriol aimed at so-called “cat ladies”—single women in their thirties and forties whose lives are allegedly composed of brunch, Pilates, and girlbossing. For the record: I prefer yoga to Pilates, I dislike brunch crowds, and I was never much of a girlboss.

Reading those comments hurts because I was single until my mid/late thirties. I spent holidays alone. Birthdays with friends. Office Christmas parties without a plus-one. And there is nothing quite like being alone during the holidays—no matter your religion.

And, Christmas Eve, about five years ago, was one of the lowest points of my adult life.

I had just left a job that was—at best—an unprofessional work environment. I’d had a string of failed romances- music producer! Sociology professor! Economist! Math-finance-computer guy! Magazine editor! (Like, the Busy World of Richard Scarry in the 2020s) I was thirty-five, unemployed, single, and staring down rent due in one of the most expensive cities in America.

It sounds like the opening scene of a Hallmark movie. But, it was my real life.

Several days earlier, I broke down crying outside FAO Schwarz. It was a beautiful New York winter days—sunny and full of families bustling around, thrilled to participate in Christmastime in the city. I was miserable in a job that hated me at least as much as I hated it. Seeing people who appeared to like their lives—who were, in that moment, surrounded by warmth and joy—was more than I could bear.

Afterward, I went back to my apartment, crawled into bed, and felt a palable loneliness. I was jobless in one of America’s most expensive cities. The only faintest romantic prospect in my life lived an ocean away—a man I’d flown to visit on a lark and a cheap-o Norwegian air ticket. I had no idea when, or if, I’d see him again.

I didn’t know what was next. But I knew it wasn’t my current mélange of unending stress, bad dates, and professional humiliation.

In the weeks that followed, I went to Equinox workouts (so sue me!), packed boxes, and plotted my move back to Washington, D.C.—something I managed with the grace of God and the help of a friend so generous I still don’t feel I deserved her. I watched HBO’s High Maintenance, a show about a weed dealer on a bike, and cried—not because of the drugs, but because the characters, however dysfunctional, seemed happy— something that felt unbearably out of reach to me at the time.

Looking back, I realize I had spent the previous years believing I could effort my way out of misery. If I just tried harder. If I weighed less. If my thighs were smaller. If my work presentations were sharper. If my email was better written. If my dating profile were better. If I did all of this, maybe—just maybe—everything would fall into place.

Everything worked out, but not for those reasons.

Through friends and sheer grit, I landed a contract working on one of the largest political conferences in America—a once-in-a-lifetime experience. That led to work at an influential think tank. Both were formative. I now run a business where I use nearly everything I’ve learned professionally to solve real problems every day. And the man an ocean away? He’s at the grocery store right now. He’s my husband.

I can’t promise it will get better tomorrow. Or next month. Or even in three months. But I can promise that it can get better. And it won’t come from more workouts, a promotion, or a better dating app profile. It will come from your inner strength.

If this Christmas feels sad or lonely. I promise it won’t feel this way forever.

I won’t offer trite advice—you know how to make hot chocolate, watch a Christmas movie, and get some rest. But I will say this: you will get out of this. Ask friends for help. Clean your room. Fix up your résumé. And if you can swing it, buy the last-minute ticket home and see your family. They’re dying to see you.

So this Christmas, I wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year—especially those who are alone. My cat ladies. Widows. Widowers. Anyone who doesn’t feel particularly merry or bright this season.

I’ll end with a quote from Washington Irving—best known for The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (Johnny Depp!), but also the author of Old Christmas, a piece that helped shape the American idea of the holiday— it wasn’t Ralph Lauren, ya big goofballs! Irving wrote, “It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling—the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.”

Let this Christmas kindle charity in your heart.

I’m looking at you, cat ladies.

Untitled card (1881), by Kate Greenaway. Chromolithograph on white card. Gift of Mrs. Richard Riddell, 1981. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (1981.1136.833).

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