December is awkward when you're unemployed
It started with a chat, one of those rare, unfiltered conversations where you can lay out your thoughts without fear of judgment.
I was telling my friend how December, with its glittering parties and endless spending sprees, feels especially awkward when you’re unemployed. Being out of work is already a sensitive topic, but throw in the holidays, and it’s like holding up a flashing sign that says, “I can’t keep up—don’t ask me to.” It’s hard not to feel like the odd one out when you’re sidestepping dinner invitations and dodging gift exchanges like a pro.
Then there’s the social choreography. Some circles aren’t exactly bad-news-friendly. Take some people I met in school or during my climb up the ranks. There’s an unspoken code of success here—new property, globe-trotting adventures, relationship milestones. I bring none of that to the table unless you count dessert.
My colleagues in creative circles? Same story. The grind continues for them, against a backdrop of bright lights and cheery carols, while my reality feels like the awkward silence between choruses. I don’t resent them, but even thinking about my state alongside their festive Instagram feeds is enough to kill the vibe.
Other groups are even trickier. Some friends simply aren’t equipped with empathy—it’s not in their wiring, and I’ve stopped expecting otherwise. They are who they are, and trying to change them just to make myself feel better isn’t worth the energy.
Then there’s the dreaded scenario where someone mistakes my honesty for a subtle cry for help. No, thank you. If I needed support, I’d go straight to my small but solid nuclear family. Nothing about this chapter screams, “let me unload my woes on you,” and I’d like to keep it that way.
Being out of work is already a sensitive topic, but throw in the holidays, and it’s like holding up a flashing sign that says, 'I can’t keep up—don’t ask me to.'
On the flip side, I don’t want to surround myself with similarly-fated friends either. Misery might love company, but it also loves pulling you into an endless loop of comparison and self-pity. I’ve had a steady stream of gigs—opportunities I’m truly grateful for—but what I need now is a full-time role to sustain me and my adult responsibilities. I know plenty of brilliant, kind, and talented people who’ve hit rough patches this year, but I’m not looking to form a club.
December is supposed to be my season—holidays, celebrations, and yes, my birthday. But this year, I’m observing most of it from the sidelines. It’s a strange feeling, watching the revelry from a distance, like a guest without an invitation. (Not the same as being invited and too lazy to show up—this is different.) Yet, I remind myself: this is a chapter, not my whole story.
Still, for all its challenges, I’m grateful. There are a few, small circles that ask nothing of me—no explanations, no facades. These friends are both givers and gifts, offering the kind of warmth that no amount of glitter or fanfare can match. I’m also deeply thankful for my circle of mentors and former bosses—those who announce my name in rooms I’m not in, offer words of wisdom when I need them most, or invite me to sprawling lunches that help munch the blues away. They deserve all the good karma for being the quiet anchors in my life.
And for those I rarely see but share ridiculous memes and risky reels with every day—they’re my tribe. With them, there’s no need to seek the spotlight or compete for attention. With them, I don’t have to step into the light or compete for attention. I can just be.
So this year, I’ll let the glitter fade without much fuss. I’ll keep the spending light, the conversations lighter, and my expectations firmly at rock bottom. Because in the end, the quieter corners of December—far from the noise and comparisons—are where I might finally find some peace. And maybe even some joy.
