I get it.
Thanksgiving and the holidays are supposed to be a time to focus on what we have, not on what we want. We are encouraged to let go of longing, to be content, and to express gratitude for what is already present in our lives.
No, thank you.
Every day, I encounter people who tell me I should be thankful for all that I have, that I should stop dwelling on what I’ve lost.
If we were talking about a material object—say, a new pair of Frye boots—then perhaps I would agree with that advice.
But we’re not.
I’m not whining about a sweater or a gadget. I’m grieving my child.
There is a profound difference.
It’s painful and, honestly, insulting when people assume I’m not aware of my blessings. I am. Deeply.
In fact, I would say that bereaved parents are some of the most grateful people in the world. We understand the value of holding tightly to what we have because we know the sharp, unrelenting ache of loss.
Yet, there are those who tell me to “count my blessings.”
“You have family and friends who love you,” they say.
“You’re lucky to have a good job and a home,” they remind me.
“Don’t forget your health,” they chime in.
I haven’t forgotten.
I’ve counted—and recounted—my blessings so many times that my pen has worn thin. And yet, every list ends with the same empty space.
My child is on the list, of course. But it’s her absence that leaves the most glaring gap—a gap impossible to ignore. Adding more blessings to the list doesn’t fill it; it only highlights what’s missing. In fact, it feels cruel sometimes, because every blessing I note is another thing she isn’t here to experience.
I know I may sound resentful when people ask me what I’m thankful for. The truth is—I am. Every single day since losing my daughter, I’ve had to force myself to count my blessings just to take the next step, to breathe, to keep moving forward.
And yes, I ask myself that question every day: What am I thankful for? It’s my way of reminding myself that life, even with its unfillable gaps, is still worth living.
So, forgive me if I seem hesitant at the holiday table, reluctant to participate in the cheerful recitations of gratitude.
I appreciate the intention. I truly do. But I don’t need anyone to remind me of the blessings I have already counted, over and over again.
What I need is trust.
Trust that I am still a grateful person.
Trust that I can grieve and give thanks in the same breath.
Trust that I can feel both the warmth of what is present and the ache of what is absent.
Grief and gratitude can, and do, sit at the same table. I will honor my daughter’s memory, I will acknowledge her absence, and I will be grateful for the love and support that surrounds me—even as my heart carries the weight of loss.
This is my Thanksgiving. This is my gratitude. And this is my grief.
