This is my fourth Thanksgiving without Tom. Saying that out loud still hits strangely, like I’m talking about someone else’s life.

The first one? I was numb. I went through the motions like a ghost in my own house.
The second… that was the one that broke me. That was the Thanksgiving where it was just Trey and me, sitting in the quiet, both trying to pretend the day didn’t feel hollow. That was the holiday that pushed me to send a message to Grant. That simple, brave little lifeline I asked for that ended up changing my whole future.

Year three was mine and Trey’s first Thanksgiving with Grant and his kids. Two families, still tender, learning each other’s rhythms. Trying not to step on toes. Trying to figure out where the old traditions ended and where the new ones might begin.

And here I am at year four. My second Thanksgiving with Grant. We’ve eased into this relationship with an unexpected comfort and a depth of appreciation that only people who have known devastating loss seem to understand. We are building something new out of the ashes of two very different lives, while still holding space for the loves who shaped us. The traditions of the past have shifted, not because we wanted them to, but because ALS had its own say. And even with so much joy, there is still grief. Grief for the time we lost. Grief for the old rituals that quietly faded.

As I’m getting ready for tomorrow, I’d love to say I’m grounded and serene, but let’s be honest, I’m overwhelmed. Not just because there’s a ton of eggs waiting to be deviled or because I’m making several other sides in the kitchen. I’m overwhelmed because I’m still recovering from this injury that has sidelined my independence for weeks. I’ve had to lean on people in ways I never like to. I can move around now, very slowly but I am doing it by myself now. And in my head, that means I need to “do all the things” like cook, clean, pack for the trip the day after Thanksgiving, just to prove I’m back.

But in the middle of that self-imposed chaos, a memory slipped in and sat beside me awhile.

I was suddenly back in the kitchen of my childhood, sitting with my mom, my grandma, and my sisters, watching the Thanksgiving morning frenzy. I could almost smell it: the cornbread being made for the dressing, my grandma tearing the Mrs. Baird’s bread into pieces, the onions and celery sautéing, and the pepper. Dear Lord, the pepper. My mom and grandma believed that dressing should bite back.

As that memory played, it hit me: those traditions didn’t disappear. They didn’t die with the people who taught me. They live in me.

They’re there when I make the cornbread.
They’re there when I inhale the smell of onions and celery.
They’re there when I reach for the pepper without even thinking.

They’re there when I remember Thanksgivings in Memphis with Tom’s family and the laughing and yelling as Euchre is being played…very competitively, I might add.
They’re here now, as I build a different kind of family, one I never expected, one born from heartbreak and hope that sit side by side.

Thanksgiving doesn’t hit the same anymore, and honestly, that’s okay. Maybe it’s not supposed to.

Because in the quiet of my kitchen this morning, as I start to make the things that are “Thanksgiving” to me, I realized I’m honestly thankful for all of it…the past ones, the hard ones, the healing ones, and even the messy new ones we’re still figuring out.

Everything changes. And nothing changes.
I mean, there is still plenty of pepper in the cornbread dressing.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends, especially to my fellow grievers. Hold onto one thing you’re grateful for today. One is enough. One opens the door for the others to follow.

Lara