Cigars & Thanksgiving

You are such a giver. Such a doer. Such a caretaker. You give and do and love. You take care of the house and the work and the pets and the people. You are quick to praise them, encourage them, check-in on them and advocate for them. You are your people’s cheerleader, nurse, counselor, chef, Uber-driver, and shoulder to cry on.

This Thanksgiving, like all the ones before, you will be asked to reflect on what you are grateful for. And while this is a year like no other, full of losses on so many levels, you will undoubtedly be able to zero in on the things that matter most: your kids/family, your home, your health, your pet, your job, your friends. Your heart will swell because really, there is so much to be thankful for.

And there will be a void. As you process through everything you are thankful for, the losses will loom. The places that you didn’t go, the people you didn’t see, the loss of normalcy, the parties that weren’t thrown, or the ones that were and you chose not to go. For many of us, the truth about the void is it can feel empty, dark, sad and lonely. 

It is hard to be a giver and send out all of that energy of doing and loving and then to sit in the emptiness of loss, to be in the sad place. I know. I do not like the sad place. However, if I don’t acknowledge it for what it is – loss – then it can eat at my heart, destroying my joy little by little, a small piece at a time. 

It’s ok to be both grateful for your life and all that is a part of it and feel sad about a friend who lost someone they love or sad for missing normalcy. It’s ok to be both tired of it all and happy to have an excuse to keep things small (or skip the traditions altogether. Someday I’ll tell you about the time in 1998 when my family had Thanksgiving dinner in the back of a pawn shop in a Mexico border town. Our meal consisted of chips and margaritas. We smoked Cuban cigars purchased in that very pawn shop, as tears rolled down our faces from both laughter and shared memories of my dear uncle who had passed away far too young from complications of the human immunodeficiency virus.)

When I fully stand in the acceptance of the both/and aspects of my reality, I stop trying to control or fight against what is. This is like a giant exhale that allows me to open up to the light that is trying to show me another way: In the sad place, there too lies hope. And from hope, we can experience joy.

This Thanksgiving, may you find light in your both/and. May you both honor your sad and open up to receive laughter. After all, tears and laughter at the same time are usually the best medicine.

Thank you for being part of my Courage Community.