A Soft Plot Twist in My Own Story

aka: Thanksgiving Day

Day 4 — November 27, 2025

Today feels different. Not cinematic-different. The sky didn’t open, an eagle didn’t land on my balcony with a message from the universe, and I didn’t suddenly understand the meaning of life. No. Today is different in that tiny, barely-noticeable, deeply suspicious way… like something inside me finally exhaled after holding its breath for far too long.

It’s Thanksgiving, and this year I refused to perform. I didn’t force cheerfulness. I didn’t pretend I had the emotional bandwidth of a Hallmark movie protagonist. I didn’t slap an “I’m fine!” sticker on my forehead for tradition’s sake.

I let myself have a quiet holiday and shockingly, it didn’t feel like failing at adulthood or womanhood or holiday-dom. It felt like a choice. A good one.

I made coffee slowly, like I actually intended to taste it. I curled my hair even though I wasn’t going anywhere. And maybe that sounds silly, getting ready for no audience, but I think I needed to see a version of myself that wasn’t bracing for impact.

Just me. A girl in her kitchen. Softly trying.

I didn’t have plans. And yes, there was a flicker of loneliness because I’m a human being and not a decorative houseplant. But there was also a strange peace in having absolutely nowhere to be. No expectations, no roles, no performative gratitude rituals.

So I sat in the hush of my little apartment and let gratitude arrive however it wanted. And it surprised me.

Gratitude didn’t feel like a list this year. Or a pressure. Or a performance.

It felt like moments. The stillness of my living room. The softness of a blanket draped around my shoulders. Roger asleep at my feet like an adorable guardian angel. The quiet hum of existing without fear for a few hours. Which felt like its own small miracle.

Thanksgiving used to be loud for me. Full of expectations and masks and versions of myself I outgrew long before I admitted it. But today was the opposite. Today felt like reclaiming something. Presence, maybe. Maybe even peace.

There were waves, obviously. Memories with sharp edges. Grief knocking like a rude neighbor. A heaviness that sat on my chest for a bit before wandering off to bother someone else. Healing is inconvenient like that.

But even inside all of that, there were these thin, glittering threads of becoming.

Tiny but undeniable.

Maybe gratitude this year isn’t about joy or clarity or triumph.

Maybe it’s just a small, steady recognition that I’m still here. Still moving. Still trying to rise even if the rising is slow and sometimes sideways.

Tonight, I lit a candle for myself. Not for celebration. Not for ambiance. But for acknowledgment.

A tiny flame for the girl who’s been carrying more than anyone knows and hasn’t stopped trying.

Thanksgiving looked different this year. But so do I. And maybe gently, quietly that’s something to be grateful for. Because somewhere between the silence, the softness, the grief that came uninvited, and the tiny pockets of peace I didn’t expect I realized I’m not performing my life anymore. I’m actually living it.

Even if it’s awkward.
Even if it’s quiet.
Even if it’s nothing like the girl I used to pretend to be.

I’m still learning how to trust this version of myself. The one who curls her hair for no one, who chooses solitude without shame, who lets gratitude arrive without a script.

But I like her.
She feels honest.
She feels possible.
She feels like someone I could grow into without losing myself again.

So here’s to this small, strange, sacred shift.

To the quiet holidays.
To the soft victories.
To the moments that don’t look like much from the outside but feel like reclamation from the inside.

Chaos in one hand.
Grace in the other.
And me finally letting both belong.