When Gratitude Feels Heavy
November is supposed to be the month of gratitude.
Everywhere I look, people are making lists of everything they’re thankful for — friends, family, homes, careers, little everyday joys. My feed is full of people surrounded by their people, laughing, taking pictures, writing about how supported and loved they feel.
And I know I should be grateful too. I can see the Hollywood sign from my window. I have work that gives me purpose. I’ve survived things I once thought would destroy me.
But sometimes, my brain still doesn’t want to be alive. And that’s the part people don’t talk about.
Because when you know you’re “supposed to” feel grateful, but your mind feels heavy, the guilt hits hard. How can I feel this way when I have so much to be thankful for? How dare I not feel happy?
Those “shoulds” have made my relationship with gratitude complicated. Especially in November, when the world feels obsessed with gratitude posts and group photos, and I look around wondering why I feel completely alone.
Why do other people seem surrounded by love, while I feel like I have to beg someone to answer my calls? Why does it feel like the only way I get to see friends is if I offer to help them with something — to go shopping, or work on a project, or teach them something new? It starts to feel like I should just be grateful anyone even wants me around.
And that thought that I’m lucky for scraps of connection is one I’ve had to stop feeding.
The Moment It Clicked
Last Thursday was one of those nights when the intrusive thoughts wouldn’t quiet down. That voice in my head was so loud: You’re alone. No one’s going to show up for you.
I called a family member, begging for them to show up — even though I knew how it would go.They never say the right things. They always make it worse. And when they didn’t respond how I needed, I used it as proof that I was right, that no one shows up for me, that I’m too much, too emotional, too needy.
That’s the dangerous thing about intrusive thoughts: they convince you to look for evidence that keeps them alive.
Holding My Own Hand
When I hung up, I fell apart. I curled up on the floor, tears everywhere, trying to catch my breath. And then I paused. I counted to ten. Through the shaking, I whispered: “I can handle this.”
I lit a candle that smelled like my grandparents’ home — my safe place. I pulled my teddy bear close, creating the feeling of being held, like when I was little and someone was always just a room away.
I put on music that’s carried me through the hardest years, and I opened Buy Yourself the Fcking Lilies. There’s a line in it that changed my life:
“Gratitude helps you see that you have a choice in what story you tell yourself.”
I sat with that for a while. Looking at Tara’s list, I realized that I could write down being grateful for a glass of water on my nightstand, or for the way the sun hit my window that morning. And that mattered just as much as anything else on anyone’s list.
Gratitude didn’t need to be grand. It just needed to be real, it needed to be about what made me feel happy.
Remembering What’s Still Here
After that, I scrolled through old photos and videos. I stopped on videos of me and Valerie dancing to “Oath” by Cher Lloyd and Becky G, drinking Dunkin iced coffee, laughing like nothing in the world could touch us. I must have replayed the videos a dozen times. For a few minutes, I let myself live in those moments again. I could smell the Everglades, feel the crisp morning wind from Parkland Loxahatchee, hear the splash of the water as Valerie and I looked for gators and watched the sun rise.
Then I found a bunch of me and Nonna, singing and dancing to Taylor Swift. I could still taste the Sauvignon Blanc, hear our laughter echoing through our home, the way we’d twirl each other around, and sing into our hair brushes
I closed my eyes and let all of it in — the sounds, the smells, the memories, the laughter. And for the first time that evening, I felt a sense of calm.
I realized that comfort could be created. That I didn’t have to wait for someone else to give it to me. That I could hold my own hand, remind myself I’m still here, and find gratitude in the smallest, most ordinary moments that make me feel alive.
Gratitude, Redefined
I used to think gratitude was something I had to feel, a checklist of “shoulds” that measured whether I was being a good person, a good friend, a good survivor.
But I’m learning that gratitude isn’t a demand. It’s not a command to smile through pain or pretend I’m okay when I’m not.
Gratitude, for me now, is presence. It’s the quiet awareness that I’m still here — breathing, existing, feeling. It’s noticing the warmth of the candle I lit when I needed comfort. The taste of Dunkin coffee that used to make me laugh with Valerie. The sound of Nonna’s voice when we sang Taylor Swift.
It’s the simple act of paying attention to the way light spills into my room in the morning, to the way my chest rises and falls when I breathe, to the small, ordinary moments that remind me I’m alive.
Gratitude isn’t a list I have to complete. It’s a way of being present with what is even when what is feels hard.
Because even in the heaviness, I’m still here. And being here, fully, honestly, imperfectly, is enough.
