Thanks.

Growing up without holidays gave me a different take on Thanksgiving—and gratitude.

It’s Thursday morning, just after 7 a.m., and I’ve already done that thing moms do when waking up early is second nature. My eyes opened without an alarm, without my son knocking on my door, without any external prompt. Just my body remembering, as it always does, that there is something to do. Always. But today is Thanksgiving. My son has the day off, and my only agenda is cooking for hours—something I genuinely look forward to.

I slip back under the covers, letting the soft, blue-grey light of morning ease me awake. There’s something about a day when forced labor isn’t required when we just get to exist as humans, that feels so much more inviting.

Growing up as an awkward, sheltered Jehovah’s Witness kid, I didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving for the first time until high school. It was at my grandmother’s house, and she went all out. Over-decorating. Over-cooking. She and my great-grandmother buzzed around the kitchen with palpable joy, finally able to share this celebration with my mom, my sister, and me—guests who had always been absent.

The house smelled like smoked ham, seasoned turkey, and simmering beans (there’s always a pot of beans in my family). The aroma of greens and mashed potatoes filled the air, and my mom’s mac and cheese joined my sister’s pie on the crowded table. I remember being struck by how simple Thanksgiving was—a family dinner with slightly better outfits. As a child, excluded from class holiday celebrations, I’d imagined Thanksgiving as something mystical, a grand ritual I was missing out on. But it was just nice china, and clinking fancy glasses of sparkling cider across a Fall-themed table.

The story behind the holiday never mattered to me. I never absorbed the romanticized version of Thanksgiving—the pilgrims, the indigenous people breaking bread over squash and maize, laughing off their genocide. That fiction never made its way into my psyche. What I felt, as a child, was a sense of exclusion: sitting out construction paper crafts, missing the Monday-after chatter about leftovers and second helpings.

Now, what I’m most grateful for on holidays I never fell in love with is the rest of it—not the fairytale or the demand to over-consume and overspend, but the pause. The peace, the family and friends, the excuse to do nothing but rest, laugh, and—if you’re lucky—eat. Beneath all the capitalism and mythology, it’s a day to simply be.

Today it’s just me and my son. I keep telling people that, and their faces fill with pity, as though I’m missing out on something monumental. My mom is in Atlanta, opting not to travel. The buddy pass I usually rely on to cut down on travel costs for me and my son was blacked out for the holidays, so for the first time in years, I’m staying home.

I’ve stocked up on groceries and a pile of new art supplies for my son. Kendrick’s new album is queued up for the hours of cooking ahead, and half a bottle of sweet red wine waits for later in the day. I’ll FaceTime with my mom and sister, propping my phone up so we can pretend miles don’t separate us. Tomorrow, I’ll send a plate across the street to my neighbor, who’ll return from spending the day with family in New Jersey.

It’s times like this that I’m oddly grateful for my peculiar upbringing. Being home this year with no big plans doesn’t feel lonely or isolating—it feels grounding. I have no desire to make a fuss about a hollow holiday built on a murderous lie. But I do want to cook all my son’s favorite foods. I want to dance in the kitchen on a Thursday.

I want to feel human, necessary and loved. And I do.

For that, I’m thankful.