There’s something about this season—the slow gold of the light, the scent of crisp leaves, the shortening days—that invites a different kind of attention. We begin to turn inward, not with heaviness, but with reverence. The year begins to exhale. And with it comes a moment to pause—not just for turkey or tradition—but for truth.
For me, Thanksgiving is less about a holiday and more about a homecoming. Not just to the people we gather with—but to ourselves. To our own resilience. Our breath. Our heartbeat. Our ever-adapting bodies. Our capacity to love, to hold, to keep going, even when the world asks more than it gives.
This year, I find myself reflecting deeply on the idea of belonging. Not just fitting in—but truly belonging. To a circle. A table. A season. A self.
Belonging to the Body
There’s a grace in realizing your body has carried you—through change, loss, joy, effort. Whether you’re in your thirties or sixties, whether you feel vibrant or vulnerable, the truth remains: your body has shown up. It has adapted, spoken, evolved, tried again.
Maybe you’ve noticed: the small signs of wear, or the big shifts of menopause. Maybe you’ve had to recalibrate—energy, appetite, movement, mood. Maybe this year stretched you in ways you didn’t expect. But still—here you are. Still breathing. Still navigating. Still becoming.
So let’s begin with this: Thank you, body.
Thank you for the nights you tried to rest, even when sleep was hard to come by.
Thank you for processing the meals, the stress, the effort.
Thank you for moving, however you could.
Thank you for carrying heartache and hope in the same chest.
The Table as a Metaphor
Whether we gather around a dining table, a campfire, a workbench, or a phone call—this season is about gathering. And I believe the table we sit at tells a story.
Some of us sit at tables filled with family—the ones we were born into. Others, with chosen family—friends, colleagues, communities who’ve become our people through time and truth. Some tables are full. Others quieter. But all are sacred, if we choose to see them that way.
Because at the table, we meet each other. We break bread. We listen. We laugh. We notice the lines on a loved one’s face. We ask how someone is, and really want to know. We celebrate—not just food—but being together. Still here. Still finding each other.
And even when the table is messy—emotionally or literally—there is still something beautiful about showing up. Being real. Saying “I’m grateful for this, even in the hard parts.” Saying “We belong to each other.”
Gratitude Is Not Just a Feeling—It’s a Practice
Gratitude doesn’t always arrive wrapped in joy. Sometimes, it sneaks in through the back door—quiet, tentative, carrying a lantern in the dark. Sometimes it looks like:
- I didn’t expect to make it through that—and yet, I did.
- I feel tired—but not alone.
- I lost more than I planned to—but found something I didn’t expect.
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This isn’t what I thought life would look like—but there’s peace here.
Gratitude is a muscle we build. A lens we can clean off and look through again. It is not performative. It’s not a holiday platitude. It is a sacred act of reclaiming our presence—even when things are imperfect.
And in this season, that practice matters more than ever.
Celebrating Resilience
This year may have asked something of you that felt hard:
- A change in health
- A shift in relationship
- A loss of something—or someone—dear
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A decision you didn’t see coming
And yet here you are. Still breathing. Still adapting. Still showing up for yourself and others.
That’s resilience. And it deserves to be honored—not just with a pat on the back, but with a pause. A breath. A moment of real acknowledgment. Because resilience isn’t about powering through. It’s about staying rooted, even when the wind rises.
So let’s say this, too: Thank you, resilience.
Thank you for giving us something to hold onto.
Thank you for the quiet courage that doesn’t make headlines but makes life possible.
Thank you for getting us here.
Gratitude for the Unseen
Much of what sustains us doesn’t get posted, pinned, or praised. It happens in quiet moments:
- The way you get up in the morning, even when it’s hard.
- The care you give to others, even when you’re weary.
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The way you light a candle. Or call a friend. Or take one deep breath when you’d rather not.
These are the invisible threads that weave us into resilience. And gratitude grows when we start to notice them.
So let’s be people who see. Who notice. Who name. Who honor the small and the sacred.
Nature as a Companion
I often say: if you’re ever unsure where to begin, go outside. Let nature recalibrate you.
In this season of falling leaves and cooler air, the Earth reminds us:
- Letting go is part of growth.
- Stillness has a place.
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Light returns, but first—we rest.
There is wisdom in the soil, the sky, the rhythm of seasons. Gratitude comes easier when we remember we are not machines—we are organisms. And we belong to something bigger.
So step outside when you can. Feel the crispness. Watch the geese fly overhead. Touch a tree. Watch the wind move through branches and know: it moves through you, too
The Invitation: Five Minutes of Stillness
And now, the most important part. Your invitation.
In the rush of preparation, hosting, gifting, and giving—pause. Just five minutes. Every day if you can.
Pull away from the noise, the screens, the expectations.
Sit. Breathe.
Place a hand on your heart. Or your belly. Or both.
Say: “I’m grateful for this life, just as it is. Just as I am.”
You don’t need perfect circumstances. You don’t need a cabin in the woods. You just need willingness.
Let this be your quiet table—where you meet yourself.
For Those Who Are Grieving or Navigating Change
Let’s also name this: holidays can be hard.
You may be missing someone. Or navigating change. Or feeling more numb than nourished.
That’s okay. Gratitude doesn’t erase pain. It companions it.
You don’t have to feel thankful for the loss. But you can feel thankful for the love that made the loss matter. You can hold both.
And if all you can do is sit and breathe and say “I’m still here”—that is enough.
A Sense of Home
So this season, wherever you gather—whether it’s with family, chosen family, friends, or solitude—let it be sacred. Let it be enough.
You belong at the table. You belong to your body. You belong to this season. You belong to life, unfolding.
And let your gratitude be simple. Real. Honest.
Final Thoughts
This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for you.
For the women in my care. For the questions you ask. For the courage you show. For the lives you shape and the legacies you carry.
I’m grateful for your trust, your presence, your willingness to evolve.
May your table be full of what nourishes. May your moments be full of what matters. And may you remember:
- Gratitude is not a performance—it’s a practice.
- Stillness is not selfish—it’s sacred.
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You are not alone—you are part of something whole and holy.
Take five minutes a day. Just five. Sit with yourself. And see what grows.
With warmth, gratitude, and deep peace,
Mary Louder, DO
“When we remember we belong—to ourselves, to each other, to nature—healing begins.”