Pumpkin Pie and Personal Growth! Just Fertilize It!

You want to know what I find odd? The pretend nature of Thanksgiving because humans have social etiquette and that requires us to temporarily set aside every ounce of bullshit we’ve piled up all year. We slap on a happy pilgrim mask, step into character, and hope nobody smells the emotional dumpster fire we shoved into the closet right before they arrived.

Thanksgiving is basically Broadway — but the cast is underdressed, underprepared, and slightly intoxicated. Everyone has a role. There’s the politically passionate uncle who shows up ready to filibuster the gravy boat. There’s the sibling who suddenly became a productivity guru because they finally paid off one credit card. There’s that cousin still “finding himself” for the eighth year in a row — usually somewhere between the couch and the fridge. Oh, and the designated garage dissenter? Yeah, the one “checking the turkey.” Spoiler alert: they’re checking their sanity.

We gather around the table like the picture of domestic peace, bowing our heads to pray while silently chanting, “Dear God, don’t let anyone say something stupid until after pie.” We pass the mashed potatoes the same way we pass responsibility for our own screwups the rest of the year — reluctantly and with a fake smile.

But here’s where the plot twist hits: Thanksgiving is beautifully, undeniably human.

It’s the one day we collectively decide to stop being the worst versions of ourselves. We pause the drama. We holster the sarcasm (well… mostly). We admit, even if only internally, that we didn’t survive another year solely because we’re badass — someone pulled us through. Maybe that someone was God. Maybe a spouse. A friend. A coworker. A random stranger who held the door on a day we were barely holding ourselves together.

Gratitude isn’t pretending everything smells like pumpkin spice. Gratitude is acknowledging the cow pie in the room and still saying, “Alright… maybe this could fertilize something good.”

Real gratitude ain’t pretty. It’s bruised knuckles and scraped knees. It’s knowing you got dragged through the mud — and yet here you sit, fork in hand, still kicking.

Real gratitude says: “I’m thankful even though life punched me in the throat.” “I’m grateful even if that turkey tastes like it died twice.” “I appreciate this dysfunctional circus because these are my clowns.” “I’m here — scarred, tired, but still standing.”

Because if gratitude was easy, everyone would be a saint. But when you’ve smelled life’s bullshit up close — when you’ve been neck-deep in the stuff — and you still find reasons to say thank you? That’s faith with dirt under its fingernails.

So laugh too loud. Hug too long. Refill that plate and remember how far you’ve come. Celebrate the chaos because the chaos means you’re still in the fight. And nobody — not even Aunt Susan with her unsolicited commentary — can take that away from you.

Thanksgiving isn’t fake. It’s a middle-finger salute to the storms that tried to wipe us out. It’s looking back at hell and saying, “Nice try. I’m still here.”

So raise your glass. Or coffee cup. Or that fancy plastic tumbler someone found on sale at Costco. Here’s to the mess. Here’s to the pain that didn’t win. Here’s to the miracles tucked inside everyday moments. Here’s to real gratitude — the gritty kind.

Now pass the stuffing. And while you’re at it? Pass a little grace. Pass the forgiveness you’ve been hoarding. Pass the hope you forgot you had. Because gratitude isn’t pretending everything’s perfect. It’s recognizing that you survived the imperfection — and you’re building something better from it.

Happy Thanksgiving. Stay grateful. Stay gritty. And never let anyone forget — your bullshit became fertilizer.