A New Thanksgiving
by Rebecca Morton
This year, Thanksgiving feels different. Quieter. A little lonelier, if I’m honest.
We moved to this town three months ago—my husband, our two kids, and me—chasing a new job opportunity and, supposedly, a fresh start. And in many ways, it has been good. The kids are adjusting well, making friends faster than I expected. My husband comes home from work actually smiling, talking about projects and people with a kind of energy I haven’t seen in years.
But me? I’m still trying to find my footing.
Back home, I knew every corner of my life. I had friends who felt like sisters, a routine that gave my days rhythm, and a community that felt like an extension of my family. Here, everything is unfamiliar. The grocery store doesn’t carry my favorite coffee, the streets don’t hold any memories, and most days I feel like a guest in my own life.
As Thanksgiving approaches, I feel the ache of what we’ve left behind more acutely. No impromptu Friendsgiving, no chaotic cooking sessions with my sister, no familiar faces dropping by with pie or wine. Just me, a mostly-unpacked kitchen, and a stack of recipe cards that suddenly feel like little anchors to a life that used to be mine.
I keep telling myself it’s just going to take time. That building a life doesn’t happen overnight. The kids are thriving, my husband is happy, and I am grateful—we’re healthy, together, and safe. But still, I miss belonging.
On Thanksgiving day, we’ll roast a turkey and set the table for four. I bought candles and new napkins, trying to make it feel festive. I even let the kids plan the dessert—store-bought pumpkin pie with extra whipped cream and chocolate chip cookies shaped like turkeys. They’re excited, and maybe that’s enough for now.
I’m learning that gratitude doesn’t always come with fireworks or a full house. Sometimes, it whispers through the quiet—through the sound of my daughter laughing in the next room, through the way my husband reaches for my hand when he walks by, through the first cold morning that smells just a little like home.