The Myth of the Holiday Bonus
Let’s get one thing straight: I have never once, in 26 years in hospitality, received a holiday bonus that looked anything like what you see in the movies. No envelopes discreetly slid across desks. No end-of-year checks. No warm speeches thanking us for “a year well done.”
The closest we ever got to a bonus was a party, and even that came with strings.
A handful of drink tickets. A buffet catered by someone’s cousin. A speech from owners or management that walked a tightrope between corporate boilerplate and performative gratitude.
And then came the real bonus: hangovers, regret, and a few memories that still haunt me in that “Why did I do that?” kind of way.
But here’s the twist; I’m not bitter. Not exactly.
Because somewhere in that haze of cheap champagne, beer, weed, an entire wheel of brie, and questionable dance moves was something else. Something real.
Hospitality workers, for all our hard edges and hardened livers, are some of the most emotionally generous people on Earth. We pour into strangers daily, literally and metaphorically, and when we finally have a room to ourselves, something unique happens.
There’s a pause.
A shift in posture.
A quiet moment of nervous hesitation from the people who are usually the loudest in the room.
It’s one of the strangest dynamics I’ve ever observed. A party full of performers, unsure of how to perform for each other. We spend our year curating joy for others, but in these rare moments meant to be ours, we sometimes forget how to show up as just… us.
So we drink.
A lot.
And for a long time, that was the default.
I can’t count the number of holiday parties that ended with someone crying in a walk-in cooler, someone else sleeping it off in a booth, and a third person confessing a crush, a trauma, or both at the same time.
We were tired. We still are. But something’s changing.
These last few years, I’ve noticed a shift, small, but mighty.
The bar manager opted for a hot chocolate station instead of mystery punch. Someone brought their kid to the holiday party. Another brought a date who wasn’t in the industry, and we all took turns telling stories about saying “behind” to total strangers in public settings.
Yeah, I really did visibly gain weight from drinking cheap hot chocolate every day for a month. No regrets. Not even one. If that’s the cost of staying a little more grounded, I’ll gladly pay it.
More and more, I’m watching people in this industry edge toward something softer.
Sober-curious folks choosing mocktails over mezcal.
Veterans pulling aside younger coworkers to ask how they’re really doing.
Party playlists getting swapped out for calm conversation and communal meals.
It’s a shift. Not a revolution, not yet. But it’s real, and it gives me hope.
Because maybe the bonus we’ve been looking for all along isn’t a line on our pay stub.
Maybe it’s the slow, intentional re-learning of how to be human together; without the mask, without the pour, without the pressure to be “on.”
The hard truth is, this industry has a long memory. The ghosts of past parties, past mistakes, past people- they linger. Sometimes when we clink glasses, we’re toasting to people who aren’t even around anymore.
That, too, is part of the job.
But I think we’re writing a new chapter now.
One where we honor the past, sure, but where we also make room for what’s next.
A version of this industry that doesn’t eat its young.
That doesn’t glamorize burnout.
That doesn’t treat reckless behavior as a badge of honor.
A version that makes space for kindness, even if it’s messy, even if it’s quiet, even if it doesn’t come with a gift card from upper management.
So no, I wouldn’t expect a bonus this year.
But I’ll take a moment of honesty.
A shared plate.
A little laughter that doesn’t need to be drowned in liquor or worse.
That’s worth something. Maybe everything.
A companion reflection on the morning after, and what lingers when the room keeps pouring.
0 Comments