The note read: “Thanksgiving should be about gratitude, not servitude. I hope today brings you clarity on what truly matters.” With that, I quietly slipped out the door, leaving behind the weight of unappreciated efforts and unending expectations.
As I sat in the backseat of the taxi, watching the familiar streets of our neighborhood fade into the background, I felt a strange mix of liberation and anxiety. Liberation from the shackles of a tradition that had gradually morphed into a personal burden, and anxiety over the uncertain reception my actions would receive. But mostly, I felt a deep sense of relief. For once, I had prioritized my own well-being over the perceptions and demands of others.
At the airport, the pre-dawn hustle and bustle of travelers provided a sense of anonymity and freedom. I was just another person moving through the terminal, unburdened by her usual roles and expectations. As I settled into a seat at the gate, an unexpected wave of peace washed over me. The decision to leave had not come lightly, but it had come necessarily.
The flight I booked was to a small coastal town, where the ocean’s persistent rhythm promised solitude and a chance to breathe. As the plane took off, I reminisced about Thanksgivings past. They were vivid memories of marathon cooking sessions, the perpetual balancing act of flavors and temperatures, the polite but sharp critiques, and the constant feeling of invisibility despite being the axis around which the day spun.
