Musical Chairs: A Solo Ager's Story
In December of 1970, my parents hosted a Christmas party for their friends and their kids. I am certain the adults sipped martinis and smoked cigarettes while the kids were entertained with games and a visit from Santa Claus. This is a photo from that night. I was five, and it was the first of the thirteen Christmases I would share with my only sibling, David. He died following a motor vehicle accident in October 1983, when he was 13 and I was 18. My mother died not quite 20 years later. My husband died about 15 years after my mom, and my father died just two years ago, leaving me the last one standing.
With no children and having lost my entire immediate family, I am a “solo ager” — or as the Canadians say, a “kinless ager.” Solo agers are people over 55 who live alone and have no offspring because they never had them, have outlived them, or are estranged. In other words, someone over 55 with no obvious heirs. In the US, approximately 7% of the over-55 population are solo agers; in Canada, it is 11%.
Back to the 1970 Christmas party. One of the games we likely played was Musical Chairs. The premise is simple: participants circle chairs while music plays; when it stops, everyone scrambles for a seat. There is always one fewer chair than players, so someone is eliminated each round. The game ends with one chair and one winner.
It is the first elimination that concerns me. That child is the lone loser, instantly isolated while the party continues around them. In the next round, a second child joins them, then a third, then a fourth. But in that first stretch, the “round-one elimination,” one child stands alone, still at the party, yet very much alone.
Throughout the holiday season, each gathering feels like a round in a long game of Musical Chairs — music, merriment, anticipation. From before Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day, the season is saturated with hype and expectation. At the end of each event, people don coats, exchange goodbyes, and mention upcoming plans. Then they go home to spouses, parents, kids, grandchildren — someone. For this childless, orphaned widow, as each gathering concludes and I return to an empty home, it feels exactly like a first-round elimination in Musical Chairs. Everyone finds a seat except me. And with each new event, it is as if the game resets and I am eliminated first again and again.
This is not to say I dislike holiday gatherings. Many individuals and families include me; I am grateful. I genuinely enjoy the parties, the people, the connection. I am also aware that not everyone goes home to a happy family or peaceful house. I simply want to name that for solo agers and for grievers, this season can feel especially isolating. I am not in acute grief this year, and still, the return to an empty home while feeling that “everyone else” is surrounded by loved ones is, at best, difficult.
Well-meaning people often respond to admissions like this by saying, “Aww, you’re not alone — you can call me anytime,” or by confessing that they wish they had more time alone because the holidays feel overwhelming. While intended to comfort, those responses invalidate what is being named, and that in turn compounds the feeling of being unseen.
My home is lovely, warm, and secure. I am fortunate and grateful. And I miss my people — especially at this time of year. There are people in your midst who are solo agers, kinless, and/or profoundly lonely. I write this so you have some grasp of what their holidays might feel like — a season of perpetual first-round Musical Chairs eliminations.
P.S. - If you or someone you know is facing this holiday season with grief please download my Griever's Guide to the Major Days. It is a practical guide that comes from my decades of experience. I hope it helps you handle these days with kindness and compassion for yourself. 🖤