What Gratitude Really Looks Like This Year

Gratitude used to feel like homework. Something I was supposed to write in a journal like a well-behaved adult: I’m grateful for my friends. I’m grateful for my home. I’m grateful for cinnamon rolls. Check. Check. Check. But this year? Gratitude feels different. Heavier. Softer. Wilder. Like it grew teeth and tenderness at the same time.

Researchers say gratitude rewires the brain. Literally reshapes neural pathways toward resilience and emotional regulation. But what they don’t tell you is that sometimes the rewiring hurts. Sometimes gratitude isn’t a pretty little list. Sometimes it’s a pulse. This year, gratitude has been less about joy and more about survival — the things that held when everything else fell apart…

The smallest mercies. The quietest comforts. The people who showed up without needing all the details.

This year I’m grateful for…

The mornings I almost didn’t get out of bed but did anyway. For the version of me that kept going even when she didn’t know why. For the softness I didn’t lose — even when the world tried to take it. I’m grateful for the friend who sat beside me while I faced something I never imagined I’d have to say out loud. She didn’t ask questions she knew would break me. She just stayed. Presence is its own kind of prayer.

I’m grateful for Roger who somehow knows when my heart is loud and my voice is small. Who leans his entire body against me like a canine sandbag holding me to the earth. I’m grateful for the way sunlight slips through my blinds on the days it feels like it’s doing it just for me. For the first snow of the season that turned the world quiet enough to hear myself think again.

And I’m grateful in a way that still feels strange to admit. For the strength that comes from breaking. Not the glamorous kind. Not the kind you put in a bio. The kind that is shaky, unpretty, unplanned. The kind that grows in the dark. Psychologists say gratitude expands the brain’s capacity for hope. Maybe that’s what this year is teaching me:

Hope isn’t loud.

Hope is a flicker. Hope is a whisper. Hope is a hand on your back saying, “Try again.” So this year, gratitude looks like this: Noticing. Breathing. Choosing myself in small, defiant ways. Finding beauty in places I once avoided. Letting myself feel joy without apologizing for the days it doesn’t come easily.

Gratitude, it turns out, isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about honoring the pieces that carried you anyway.

And this year?

That feels like more than enough.