there’s a lot to be grateful for

growing up, getting wiser

Today is Thanksgiving, I’m in Copenhagen, where Thanksgiving does not exist—except for the fact that I booked Adam and me into the one Thanksgiving dinner option I could find online. Last week, I had the grand idea to cook a big homemade meal, but then I thought to myself I probably have better things to do. Like reading a book, writing, making a gift guide, visiting a museum, going to yoga, driving myself crazy in our small studio apartment, ordering another overpriced flat white, calling a friend, watching a movie cozied up on the couch, painting my nails, shopping for a new sweater, cooking a simple breakfast, baking cookies, listening to a podcast, going for a walk, riding my bike to a new part of the city— you get the point. There are a million things I could think of doing that do not include slaving away for hours to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for two. So why am I making such a fuss about it?

Truth is, I’m often hard on myself for the things I don’t do. Maybe that’s because I actually want the outcome of the action but don’t want to engage in the process of doing it. Or maybe it’s because I actually don’t want the very thing that I am chasing. 

It’s not hard for me to visualize a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner laid out on a delicate white linen tablecloth. Decorated with an ornate centerpiece and beautiful table settings. The kitchen is fragrant with a chicken or turkey roasting slowly in the oven, gooey sweet potatoes on the stove, and a large pumpkin pie ready to be baked. Sisters roaming aimlessly in the kitchen. Fathers on the couch watching football. Brother inside playing video games. All waiting to sit around the table to enjoy the food that’s taken all day to prepare and will be gone in mere minutes. 

In another life, I imagine myself opening a bottle of deep red wine and listening to soft music on the speaker while the kitchen glows warmly to onlookers passing by. I am wearing my favorite cable-knit sweater with stockings and soft cashmere socks while sitting across the table from my love, engrossed in conversation and snacking on small bites at the table. Then reality sets in and it all comes crumbling down.

Our too-small kitchen and the burnt pans where my eggs stuck this morning. I remember Adam will have to work all day and won’t walk through the door until 5:30—or more realistically 6—when it’s already been dark for two hours, and I’ve burnt the chicken. I remember I’ve never prepared a meal with any flavor besides taco soup, which requires five ingredients. I remember we don’t have the beautiful white French linen tablecloth, and it’s already too late to order anything online. I remember Thanksgiving is a holiday meant to be spent with our families, and this year it will be just us two.

I remember I’d probably have to visit at least three supermarkets to find the right ingredients for a minimum of two side dishes and a main. I remember I haven’t seen turkey in a grocery store all year, and why would I expect anything different on Thanksgiving, when it’s just another day here? I remember all the things I’ll forgo in an attempt to cook this elaborate meal that will probably be eaten faster than it will take to clean up afterward. Adam will offer to wash the dishes, but I won’t let him because what will I do otherwise but sit and watch. So I’ll get up and help because it bothers me the way he neglects to wipe the spoon before putting it back in the drawer. At this point, I help load the dishwasher, and together, we dry the dishes, one by one. By the time the kitchen is clean and the leftovers are put away, one of us will make a remark about how the food probably would have been better if we’d gone to one of the pre-fixe dinner menus I found online. Perhaps we would’ve met some fellow Americans there, enjoyed a drink with strangers, and made remarks about how Thanksgiving is just another day anywhere outside The States.

Last year, we spent Thanksgiving in New York with Adam’s mom and brother in their Lower East Side apartment. I cried when I woke up and watched the parade alone in the cold darkness of their basement. Later, Adam joined me, and we walked to Starbucks, the only place open for coffee all day. We bought pastries from the window at Balthazar to share on a large plate in the center of their square dining room table. The four of us drinking coffee from our paper cups and pulling apart chocolate croissants and pain suisse to share. I remember thinking at that moment how much my life had changed from the year before yet how special it was to share traditions with new people.

Two years ago, I spent Thanksgiving with my family in New York. We woke up early to make our way uptown to see the parade, and my brother complained it was “not worth our time.” I yelled at him, so my mom yelled at me to stop being a second parent. In the afternoon, we ate French fries and drank champagne at Soho Diner while it grew dark and cold outside. At night, we listened to jazz while ordering lobster mac and cheese and a kale salad, and there wasn’t a turkey in sight. Reflecting on that time, I think about how none of us knew it would be our last Thanksgiving together with just us five—before any of us got married, pregnant, or moved abroad.

I haven’t been “home” for Thanksgiving since 2020, during COVID in Arizona when my mom had just moved into her rental after separating from my stepdad. We baked pies on her new marble countertops, and the house filled with warmth from the inside out. I don’t know when I’ll spend another Thanksgiving this way, but I do know that every year since, I’ve tried to emulate something of that feeling.

Which means I have to adapt the holiday to wherever I am in the world and whoever I’m with. Because I can acknowledge that this day is important to me. After all the memories it has created for me—curled up on the couch under a pile of blankets, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade while sipping coffee with sweet creamer and a sugary treat; making pie crusts alongside my siblings for an array of desserts at the family soirée. And the funny thing is, most of my memories of Thanksgiving are spent in the kitchen all day, neglecting the routines of a typical Thursday to enjoy time with loved ones and forget whatever worried us the day before or will come to mind the day after.

I think part of growing up is realizing that we have to do something besides lie on the couch for dinner to show up on the table. We must actively participate in our lives to make something worthy of existing happen. And maybe the work doesn’t sound fun, or you’re tired, and none of it seems “worth it.” But maybe it’s in the process of doing that you learn something new—how to lattice a pie or which fruits to stuff the turkey with—so that next year, when the work feels overwhelming, you’ll have the practice of doing it once before, and it won’t feel so hard. You’ll realize what you’re capable of and approach the task with more confidence and ease.

This year, Adam and I will be going to Kismet for Thanksgiving dinner to enjoy a cozy dinner for two, one that requires no cleaning or preparation and focuses instead on time well spent with a loved one over a nice meal.

My gratitude list this year is long and sentimental, so I thought I’d share it with you:

For Adam, the unconditional love and support he provides me.

For our humble studio in Copenhagen, offering warmth and safety.

For the candles we’ve burned to fill our space with a cozy ambience.

For a long and deep sleep.

For each night we’ve found a comfortable position on the couch to read or watch TV.

For the soft jazz playlist that plays on our speaker on a quiet day at home.

For the small joy of a hot cup of coffee.

For rainy days inviting me to stay inside.

For sunny days that pull me outdoors for a nice long walk.

For my bike, getting me safely to where I need to go.

For the irresistible pull of a good book.

For my new brown loafers that I saw and tried on once before buying.

For my new cashmere socks that kept my toes from freezing while walking in the cold last Saturday.

For the silver hoop earring I lost and found again.

For every meal I’ve gotten to share with Adam in our apartment.

For the countless buns with butter and cheese that have defined my time in Copenhagen.

For the friends and acquaintances I’ve met abroad.

For all the walls I’ve ever called home.

For home, as a feeling that exists deeply in my heart.

For the times I’ve gotten to see my dad while living in Europe.

For our trip to Holland to visit my grandparents in their home.

For our trip to Paris with Danielle and Tim.

For Palmes, giving Adam and me the gift of living in Copenhagen for four months.

For Copenhagen itself, which gently revealed what I truly want in life.

For the quiet wisdom of my intuition, guiding me toward my path.

For the courage to trust my intuition and follow where it leads.

For the strength to choose myself, again and again, no matter how hard it feels.

For the trust I’ve cultivated in my ability to make the right choices for my life.

For paying off my credit card debt.

For getting laid off from my job.

For the chance at a fresh start in January.

For the health and safety of my friends and family.

For my family, whose love I feel deeply even from afar.

For my friends who scheduled FaceTime dates and Google Meet sessions to stay up to date on each other’s lives while living in vastly different time zones.

For Sara, a sounding board for my wildest ideas, patiently letting me change my mind a hundred times before landing on the right one.

For Nour and Temo, whose companionship quickly felt like home in a new city.

For my sister’s fiancé, who loves and cherishes her.

For my sister’s healthy, growing pregnancy

For songs that make me cry.

For every time I’ve allowed myself to be creative.

For the writers, creators, and artists who inspire me.

For my yoga practice, keeping me sane on my best and worst days, but mostly the days when showing up on my mat felt like the only thing left in my control.

For a pen and paper for writing down my thoughts.

For this list of gratitude, a reminder of just how full life can be.