In 2006, I had been living in Mexico as part of a yearlong youth missionary program. The original plan was to stay at the center for the entire year because it was more cost-efficient that way. As December apporached, however, I began to feel very homesick, so my parents decided to purchase a plane ticket that allowed me to fly to Washington State, where Ninang Baby, my mom’s sister, was living at the time with her husband and two young children.
I was worried that it would be a much more subdued celebration compared to the boisterous family reunions I had gotten used to at home. Instead, I encountered something unexpectedly familiar. My Ninang had organized a potluck party for a circle of Filipino friends who, like her, were far from their own families. Her house smelled of food that tasted like home (lumpia, pansit, fruit salad) combined with American classics (roast beef and mashed potatoes). People stayed up late reminiscing and laughing about how clueless they were when they first got to the United States. The night, of course, ended with a karaoke match. And though I deeply missed my parents, I genuinely had fun. I didn’t have the language for it then, but I was experiencing what is now commonly called an “Orphan Christmas.”
Traditionally, the term Orphan Christmas or “Orphan Holidays” referred to charity-organized celebrations for children living in orphanages and shelters. In recent years, it has expanded to describe holiday gatherings for adults who have lost loved ones, live far from home, or are estranged from family. It is a way to create a sense of belonging during the Christmas season for those without traditional family structures to celebrate with.
Looking back, I understand why that particular Christmas stayed with me. Loneliness during the holidays is not just about being physically alone. It is also about feeling disconnected from the collective expression of joy and togetherness. Mental health professionals have long observed a rise in depression and loneliness during the holiday season. In particular, adults without families face heightened risks from grief and social stigma. The pressure to feel and appear happy, combined with endless get-togethers, which tend to invite constant social comparison, can further intensify feelings of emptiness. While Christmas is undeniably a source of hope and joy for many, high divorce rates, delayed marriage, geographic mobility, and longer life spans have created a growing population of people who may be having a difficult time navigating traditions built around the nuclear family ideal.
Orphan Christmases have emerged as an important and meaningful response to this reality. Psychological research consistently points to social connection as one of the most important protective factors against depression, particularly during emotionally charged periods like the holidays. Orphan Christmases help people combat loneliness by reminding them that love and connection do not only come from blood relatives but also through chosen kinship. This new ritual makes room for other ways of celebrating: your life doesn’t have to look a certain way, you only have to show up.
Today, I belong to what the internet humorously refers to as a DINKWADAC household: double income, no kids, with a dog and a cat. Those close to me know that motherhood has long been one of my deepest hopes, though it has not yet been fulfilled. I am surrounded by love from my parents, my sister and her family, as well as from friends who have become family—and I do not take that for granted. Still, Christmas, with its emphasis on the wonder and joy of children, always arrives tinged with a quiet loneliness. While the feeling is often softened by faith and gratitude, the lack does feel a bit more pronounced at certain moments during Christmas.
This experience has deepened my empathy for adults who do not inhabit the family structures that Christmas rituals tend to highlight. In recent years, I have found myself organizing Orphan Christmases of my own—for friends who are single, grieving, far from family, or simply experiencing the season differently than they had expected. I’ve come to realize that what this stage of my life allows me to offer others is accompaniment. It is, in its own way, a form of vocation.
My Ninang Baby passed away 12 years ago. I think of her often at Christmas, not only because I miss her but also because her hospitality taught me something enduring. She acknowledged my loneliness and homesickness, and then reminded me that these challenges need not be faced alone. This is the gift of Orphan Christmas to so many: a celebration that is not defined by who or what is missing, but by the hope and joy that could grow in those spaces.
This article originally came out on Undercurrent, my weekly column for the Philippine Daily Inquirer. Full archive could be found here: https://opinion.inquirer.net/byline/eleanor-pinugu
