Meeting the new year alone

Around me, the night glows with bursting fireworks and the laughter of families celebrating the holidays. I, on the other hand, sit before my worn laptop, trying to drown out the cheer with the steady tapping of my fingers as I race against looming deadlines. My room is cluttered with takeout containers and an already lukewarm cup of coffee, which keeps me company on what they say is the most wonderful day of the year.

While the year ends in noise and color, my new year approaches in silence.

Growing up, our Christmas and New Year celebrations were never luxurious. Still, they were never empty. We found joy in what my carpenter father and fruit vendor mother could provide. Our holiday décor was simple, mostly recycled ornaments brought out year after year, each one carrying a memory. Gift giving was never expected. Even as children, we understood the limits of our family’s finances.

What we lacked in wealth, we made up for with presence. Every Christmas and New Year, we watched fireworks bloom across the sky as a family.

The next day, we’d attend mass together, then roam around Plaza Mabini. Time moved slowly as we blended with other families, greeted familiar faces, and exchanged holiday wishes with genuine smiles. The wintry air was always ripe with the scent of bibingka and puto bumbong, making the day feel gentle and complete.

For several years now, that tradition has been broken, not by choice, but by necessity.

It began when I left home at 20 to live with my aunt so I could continue my education.

My mother opposed my rather drastic decision at first, but I was stubborn and determined, convinced that leaving was necessary. In the end, I went through with my plans. Somewhere along the way, a quiet distance grew between us. I tried reaching out, but her silence met me each time.

That year, I spent Christmas with my cousins. The house was lively, the food plentiful, the laughter real. Yet beneath it all was a longing that tightened my chest. I missed my family, but pride and ego kept me from crossing the distance I had helped create.

When I graduated from senior high, we made amends in the only way we knew how, silently. There were no apologies or explanations, only an unspoken agreement to move forward.

I returned home, reassured by the security of my college education as a scholar of both our governor and the SM Foundation. After two years away, I believed I could finally spend the holidays with my family.

I was wrong.

College life proved relentless and extremely demanding. As an accountancy student, a staff member of our college publication, and a part-time worker, time was never on my side. That year, and the years that followed, work often took precedence over our family tradition. I met Christmas and the New Year on buses, along dim roads, or while hurrying home after long shifts.

Still, my family remained understanding. Whenever I arrived, no matter how late, the food and fruits I loved were waiting, carefully set aside. There was a silent understanding that since I was supporting myself, certain sacrifices were unavoidable.

After graduation, when I began living alone, the distance grew wider. The irony was hard to ignore. We lived in the same city, yet felt worlds apart. At first, I visited home during the holidays, or at least on Christmas Day or New Year’s Eve. Eventually, adulthood caught up with me. Visits turned into messages, and messages grew shorter as the years passed.

Over time, I grew accustomed to spending the holidays on my own, in the company of work files, journalism commitments, and now, law school readings. As a creature of habit, this quiet solitude became familiar, almost expected, no matter how heavy it felt.

Yet I am not alone in this loneliness. My eldest brother and younger sister now work abroad and rarely come home for the holidays. Like many overseas workers, they send balikbayan boxes filled with gifts, carefully chosen to make up for their absence. Their presents arrive on time, even when they cannot. It is but a gentle, yet painful reminder that we are not kids anymore, and that we live in an adult world where responsibilities loom overhead.

However, my predicament also opened my eyes to the realization that I do not need holidays to spend time with my family. The dates on the calendar do not dictate our familial bonds. Even on ordinary days, I can check in on my family and my siblings abroad, sharing little victories and daily frustrations. I have learned to carve moments of connection in between work, school, and the business of life itself.

As another year closes, and I will bid adieu to it while saying hello to the next chapter of our lives, I find comfort that although I will spend the New Year alone, I will make more time for my family in the next few days.

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Alduz Clark Viray, 29, is a trainer and advocate for journalism and an aspiring lawyer. He spends his free time painting or taking long photowalks in Batangas City.