The note simply read: “I’ve decided to give thanks to myself this year.” It was a declaration of independence, a small, handwritten assertion of worth that felt more freeing than any holiday celebration could ever promise. With each step down the driveway, the suitcase wheels gently bumping along the pavement, I felt a weight lifting from my chest, a sensation of liberation that only grew stronger as I approached the airport.
This decision had not come easily. For years, I had internalized the expectations placed upon me, feeling trapped in a cycle of thankless labor masked as familial duty. The kitchen had become both my domain and my prison, a place where I was lauded for my culinary skills yet left isolated from the joy and camaraderie that filled the rest of the house.
As I handed my ticket to the agent and moved through security, I thought about how Thanksgiving was supposed to be about gratitude and togetherness. But for me, it had long been synonymous with stress and exhaustion. My contributions had been taken for granted, my sacrifices glossed over, and my voice, drowned in the din of their laughter and clinking glasses.
