I’ll be honest. I wrestled with whether I should even send a newsletter this month. Like anyone who has lived 40-something years, I’ve navigated at least a few Turkey Days where it’s difficult to cultivate gratitude.

In 1998, Thanksgiving fell two days after my adrenalectomy. My dad and sister sat beside me in the hospital room eating the makeshift Thanksgiving feast my dad whipped up in my Holly-Hobby sized apartment while I tried to swallow neon green Jell-O. In 2005, I was heartbroken after calling off an engagement. And in 2011, I was sentenced to a hospital bed with a high-risk pregnancy waiting to birth twins.

The reality is, despite the picture-perfect (and carefully curated) posts on social media, sometimes holidays are rough.

Still, from the time I was a little girl, Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday. It isn’t the Black Friday shopping, football watching or the pie. I avoid all three. It’s the opportunity to reflect on my blessings. Maybe most important, I look forward to a season-long opportunity to soak up the family and extended family I loved so dearly.

Up until my sisters and I began having families of our own, we always traveled north to see my Aunt Jane and Uncle Mitch, spending the long weekend in their picturesque surroundings. My kids are convinced they live in Bruce Wayne’s house, or at least an exact replica.

I remember staring out the window during the hours-long drive, daydreaming and crafting stories in my mind. As a teen, I spent many of those hours fixating on my crush of the moment and wondering if, by some miracle, he would meet me beneath the mistletoe at the holiday festival.

I adored Aunt Jane’s parents. Her dad, Webb, was a brilliant ophthalmologist who delighted me with stories about war history. Her mom, Joan, was a beautiful woman straight out of a Jane Austen novel. She always wore dresses, styled her hair in a perfect bun with curls framing her porcelain skin, and whipped up the best pecan pies on the planet.

The adults played poker until the wee hours, my mom jokingly yelling “jerk, jerk, jerk” to whoever was winning. The kids watched TV and played with Aunt Jane’s menagerie — dogs, cats, horses, and rabbits. That’s where we experienced family. It’s where I felt loved and accepted, even while battling ridiculous acne. It’s where I let the people I loved carry me when I felt weak. There, with those people, I felt at peace.

On November 10, 1993, my aunt delivered twins; a boy, Grant, and a girl, Morgan. They each were a spitting image of a parent. Grant looked like his mom. Morgan like her dad.  I remember watching Aunt Jane nursing those babies just days after their birth and thinking, “How on Earth is she doing this?” I didn’t realize then, at 19 years old, that I would learn one day firsthand, when my own twins were born.

This Thanksgiving, for the first time in more than a decade, I will once again be heading north — but only because my Aunt and Uncle’s idyllic world has flipped on its head.

On November 12th, I awoke out of a vivid dream: two hummingbirds and a third bird. Maybe a blue jay, or a robin. No idea. They were dancing before me against a vibrant backdrop of color – primarily a brilliant yellow, but also rich blues and greens. The dream was so powerful that I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Hours later I discovered that Grant, who just turned 28, is dead. His parents and twin sister reeling from unimaginable loss. There’s no way to process this, not even on the page. And yet, I know there’s catharsis in writing and remembering.

So this Thanksgiving, it’s exceptionally difficult to focus on blessings; on how a world can continue spinning without Grant in it. Instead of trying to make sense of that new reality, I am holding space for my beloved aunt, uncle, and cousin as they say farewell to the “ray of sunshine” that was Grant. I’m hoping it’s there, with those people, where healing happens; where we’ll all find peace.

PRO ADVICE

“Take your broken heart and turn it into art.” – Carrie Fisher

A few standout essays by authors navigating grief and loss: