Love, Loss and Leftovers: A Thanksgiving Story
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
Mama' Shelley’s food over the years. The coconut cream pie is my version of mom’s pie. All else are Shelley’s🩷
Thanksgiving isn’t just a holiday; it’s a mosaic of memories, emotions, and traditions. For me, it’s the smell of sweet potatoes wafting through the kitchen, my mom insisting the pie crust be just right, and an apartment filled with both love and awkward conversations. It’s the laughter of chosen family balancing the silence left by those we’ve lost. This season carries grief and joy— hand in hand—a bittersweet reminder that togetherness is defined by who holds space in your heart, and not just your bloodline.
But Thanksgiving also comes with its complexities. Beneath the modern-day traditions lies a history that’s much harder to celebrate—a day rooted in a narrative that glosses over the truth of Indigenous peoples' experiences (marked by violence, exploitation and colonization.) In fact, for many Native Americans—today is a Day of Mourning. It’s impossible to untangle the joy of gratitude from the weight of this history, and I don’t think we should try. Instead, I’ve learned to sit with the tension: to honor the day for what it means in terms of time with family while also acknowledging the stories that came before it. Gratitude doesn’t erase history, but it can expand our awareness of it.
This duality—the tension between celebration and reflection—is something I carry into my personal memories of Thanksgiving, too. My mom had a way of loving through food. She didn’t just cook; she created abundance. A kitchen counter overflowing with dishes—enough to feed a small army. My oldest nephew, who lived with her until his death in 2020, was part of that abundance. Every Thanksgiving, mom would wrap food just for him before he headed to his mom’s house—a special package filled with his favorites. He’d grab it with a mix of gratitude and mischief, knowing it was made with so much of his grandma’s love. It’s a tradition I still think about every year, a memory that makes me smile and ache at the same time.
Now, as parentless adults with no living elders, my remaining brothers, chosen family, and I are finding new ways to create the holiday. It’s not always easy. There’s a different weight to these gatherings now—a quiet acknowledgment of what’s missing and a simultaneous determination to honor what remains. We cook mom’s recipes, share her stories, and somehow, through all the grief and laughter, find our way back to the dining room table. It’s messy, imperfect, and beautiful all at once.
And tucked into all of it are microjoys: the unexpected warmth of connection, the clink of mismatched glasses (or tbh, plastic cups at my brother’s place), and the gratitude found in the smallest, most fleeting moments. The way the light catches the edge of a pie dish. The unguarded laughter shared with people who truly see you. The smell of my mom’s coconut cream pie filling the house, even though it’s now my hands doing the work. Thanksgiving, for all its complexity, invites us to find meaning in both the depth and the simplicity of being together.
Family, of course, is its own nuanced thing. Some people are blessed with families that nourish and embrace them. Others create their own—friends, mentors, neighbors, or even coworkers who surprise you by bringing a dish you actually look forward to eating. And for many (myself included), this time of year is complicated by estrangement, unresolved tensions, or the absence of the people we once called home. It’s also a reminder that family doesn’t have to look like a Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes it’s a group of people crammed around a tiny IKEA table with takeout containers and enough love to fill a mansion.
Then there’s the experience of spending the holidays alone—a reality often wrapped in stigma but rich with its own complexities, I’m sure. Being alone on Thanksgiving doesn’t mean being devoid of gratitude, but it can be heavy. The quiet stretches longer, the day feels different. Yet, even in solitude, there’s space for microjoys: a favorite song playing in the background, the ritual of preparing a small, perfect meal, or the simple act of lighting a candle to honor what and who you miss. And also, let’s not underestimate the joy of not having to defend the last piece of pie from someone with suspiciously fast reflexes.
And what of those seasons when joy feels inaccessible? Grief can make the holidays ache, magnifying the absence of someone who should be there. Joy doesn’t always coexist with grief; sometimes, it’s grief alone that occupies the room, especially around the holidays. But even in that, there is complexity—because grief itself is a reflection of love. And perhaps Thanksgiving, in its imperfect, messy way, holds space for all of it: joy, grief, solitude, community, and the endless contradictions of what it means to be human.
As the world around us feels heavier—climate crises, endless news cycles, and debates over whether cranberry sauce from a can is acceptable (it is)—Thanksgiving reminds us to pause. To honor what’s beautiful, what’s complicated, and what’s still possible. And maybe, just maybe, to sneak the last slice of pie before anyone else notices.
Every essay will feature a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
Mom and I cicra 2015:
In all her wisdom and unapologetic cuss words—she taught me life’s truths without a filter. Her kitchen was a sanctuary, her voice a compass and her laughter a balm.
Even in her imperfections, she held a love for her children and grandchildren so fierce that— it still lingers in the air.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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