Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. The warm smells of turkey roasting, pies baking, and laughter echoing through my childhood home always felt like a cozy hug. My mom was the heart of it all, orchestrating every detail with love and care—from her perfectly golden turkey to her special cranberry sauce recipe that she refused to write down. Thanksgiving was our family’s day to come together, a sacred day in its simplicity.
But when my mom died, Thanksgiving became unbearable.
Grief has a way of twisting joy into something sharp and painful. The first Thanksgiving after she passed, I thought I could get through it. I told myself I’d honor her by making her favorite dishes and keeping the traditions alive. But the emptiness at the table felt louder than the conversations. Her absence was a gaping hole that nothing could fill. I remember sitting there, trying to smile through tears as I realized the day I once loved had turned into a cruel reminder of what I’d lost.
It’s a strange feeling, hating a holiday that was once so dear. But that’s the reality of grief. Society tells us to be thankful, to count our blessings, and to focus on gratitude. But what if gratitude feels impossible? What if all you can think is the weight of what’s missing? Thanksgiving now feels like a spotlight on my loss, a day when I’m expected to gather and celebrate while my heart quietly breaks. The loneliness, the longing, and the memories that feel like a knife in the heart are all part of the complex tapestry of grief during the holidays.
Over the years, I’ve learned a few things about navigating the holidays after losing someone you love. The first is that it’s OK to hate Thanksgiving. It’s OK to dread the holidays or to skip them altogether if that’s what you need. Grief is deeply personal, and there’s no ‘right’ way to handle it. If putting up a brave face feels too heavy, it’s OK to let it fall. Your grief is yours, and it’s valid.
The second lesson is that creating new traditions can help. I’ll never stop missing my mom, but I’ve found small ways to honor her memory that feel meaningful. Some years, I make her cranberry sauce, not for a big gathering, but for myself. Other years, I volunteer at a shelter or spend the day hiking in nature, where I feel closer to her in the quiet. These are my ways of reclaiming the day, of finding moments of peace amidst the pain. These moments remind me that there can be hope and healing even in grief.
Holidays like Thanksgiving highlight the duality of grief: the love that remains and the loss that lingers. For anyone struggling with the season’s weight, know that you’re not alone. It’s OK to feel how you feel, whether anger, sadness, or numbness. Grief doesn’t follow the calendar, and healing doesn’t come with deadlines. Remember, you’re not alone in this journey. Others understand and are here for you.
This Thanksgiving, I’ll light a candle for my mom. I’ll let myself feel whatever comes—the love, the pain, and everything in between. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a moment of gratitude, not for the holiday itself, but for the love I was lucky enough to have—and the memories that even death can’t take away.
