A reflection on the gratitude that emerges not from absence of pain, but from the trembling awareness of still drawing breath—and what blooms when we learn to hold both loss and wonder in the same hand
I want to share two things with you this week. Tomorrow in the U.S. we celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday with a complicated origin. At its best though, it's a day to remember and remain oriented toward gratitude.
Gratitude is one of those words that we hear and all sort of “get” what it means. Thankfulness. But it can often feel vague. That lack of specificity doesn’t give us much to lean into sometimes. It runs the risk of leaving us rushing by, without pause, thinking: yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m thankful for lots of things…
And so with that, first, I share a piece a wrote nine years ago. It's one that still manages to remind me of what it is like to be grateful for life itself…
Fierce Gratitude
After my friend died unexpectedly from a stroke 15 months ago, I wandered through my days in a fog, not able to focus on the tasks in front of me.
If I wondered if she’d been trapped inside her body unable to speak to us for that week, I’d think of her as a prisoner, stuck there in the hospital bed while her worried friends commented about the swelling in her legs, a phantom movement in her hand, her yellow nail polish. If I concentrated on my friend’s actual death, replaying what I imagined were her last moments of consciousness, I would spiral into despair.
Once she was declared gone, I walked around for days doing, I suppose, my normal things. Kissing my girls goodbye in the morning before school, answering emails, making spaghetti for dinner. But really I was adrift. I alternated between wallowing in acute loss and feeling like someone had hit me upside the head. I couldn’t remember the punch clearly, but it stung, and I felt woozy.
One day, though, I started to notice a new feeling that arose, quiet and cottony from the haze — a deep, desperate appreciation for being alive. When it came, I’d stop whatever I was doing, and thank my breath for still being with me. I was awash in gratitude for my heart still beating, my blood so efficiently pumping through my veins, without any effort whatsoever from me. As I continued to walk through those days, I thought myself grateful for my life. And I was. It was a fierce sort of gratitude, though; one that was born out of the juxtaposition of my alive self with what had recently lain there in that hospital bed — a riot of tubes and monitors that pushed air into what used to be my friend.
Since that time, I’ve slowly felt my way toward something more joy-filled. Step by step, half-blind on some days, I’ve steadied myself. I picked up the remnants of my work life, where my friend played an intricate part, and stitched together a different job for myself. And in the other areas of my life I’ve really started to bloom. I’ve met a tribe of soul sisters so amazing and filled with magic that it takes my breath away.
I am writing again. I found my way back there, creating characters and dialogue, playing with sentences and words, and have fallen in love with it all over again. What’s more, I’m doing work I love, helping other writers and seekers find their voices and bring them into the world.
These days I am full, full of joy — the true essence — not the absence of pain but rather that which fills a life.
This morning, I awoke smiling. Lingering a second or two, I drank in those precious moments, luxuriating in the day’s possibilities, and I felt a sense of gratitude, deep and wide, for being alive. And for that, I’m fiercely grateful.
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And I also offer you this beautiful video from Waking Up (link in quote and photo.) It too speaks of gratitude, combining the words of one of my favorite authors, David Whyte, with the lovely music of the composer Mark Guiliana.
In the essay, David writes:
May you be well. And may you find moments this week to pause and feel deeply grateful.