You know that feeling when Thanksgiving rolls around and suddenly you’re elbow-deep in nostalgia, trying to recreate a holiday that only exists in your childhood memories? The giant turkey in the oven before sunrise. The parade humming on the TV. The endless dishes of sides that somehow all had to be ready at the exact same moment. The perfect hostess routine layered on top of it all.

For years, I treated Thanksgiving like a living museum exhibit. Every dish, every tradition, every moment had to match the version I remembered. I wasn’t just cooking a meal. I was time-traveling. Chasing a feeling. Keeping something sacred alive.

But life doesn’t stay in one shape forever. There were years when it was just me and my son, and the big, complicated holiday made absolutely no sense. And you know what? Those Thanksgiving days, with a simple turkey breast, some vegetables, and zero pressure to perform, were just as warm, just as meaningful. We didn’t watch the parade. We didn’t eat on the dot at 1 p.m. We didn’t fuss. We just… enjoyed time together.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I’d been carrying this unspoken expectation that holidays only count if they look like the past. And honestly? That belief has served its time.

These days, a nourishing Thanksgiving looks very different. Everyone gets to enjoy the day... not just the ones who aren’t stuck in the kitchen. Cooking is shared. Cleanup is shared. Expectations are shared. And the menu? Please. Eat whatever makes you happy. If your soul wants pizza, let it be pizza. If someone wants to bring pie from the store instead of making one, let them without shame.

When I picture Thanksgiving from the perspective of my body, not my conditioning, it doesn’t ask for gravy or tradition. It asks for rest. Softness. Laughter. Connection. The things that actually feed us, long after the leftovers are gone.

What I’m done pretending is that there’s such a thing as the perfect holiday. Perfect is something we perform. Nourishing is something we feel.

And the moment that proves it? Thanksgiving night. The meal is done. The dishes are handled. The house feels settled again. And suddenly, you get that first quiet inhale of the whole day. You get to sit down with the people you love, no rushing, no timing, no to-do list in your head, and that’s when the holiday finally feels real.

If this season is bringing more pressure than joy, more nostalgia than peace, more expectation than capacity… you have permission to let it be smaller, softer, and truer.

Let the day be enough.

Let you be enough.

Shift on, friend

Decoding The Shift: Black Friday

There was a time when the day after Thanksgiving didn’t feel like a competitive sport. My earliest memories of it aren’t about chaos or crowds, but about my mom, grandmother, and aunts sitting around the Thanksgiving table with a thick stack of newspaper flyers. They’d sip their coffee, flip through the pages, and chat about what looked good. No urgency. No frenzy. No alarm clocks set for 1 a.m. It wasn’t even called Black Friday yet. It was just another cozy morning that happened to include a pile of colorful ads.

Somewhere between then and now, the whole thing took a sharp left turn into madness.

By the early 2000s, the shift was impossible to ignore. The noise got louder. The pressure thickened. Ads started screaming about deals you “couldn’t afford to miss,” as if missing a discounted video game meant you’d somehow failed your loved ones. The cheer of the season got swallowed by commercial hype, and honestly, that’s when Black Friday started to feel icky for me.

These days, the first mention of Black Friday, which, by the way, creeps in before Halloween now, makes my shoulders and jaw tighten. My whole body reacts. It’s the emotional equivalent of someone saying, “Quick! You have six minutes to buy the PERFECT PRESENT or Christmas is ruined.” It feels gross. And artificial. And completely disconnected from anything the season is supposed to be.

The heart of the issue? We’ve turned every holiday into an opportunity to spend. Every special moment into a transaction. Every ritual into a marketing campaign. Instead of decompressing after Thanksgiving, everyone is told to get out there, chase deals, and “win the holidays,” whatever that means.

Funny thing is… that wasn’t always the case.

I remember when the day after Thanksgiving was slow and quiet. Pie for breakfast. Kids writing letters to Santa at the kitchen table while parents turned leftover turkey into hot sandwiches. People reading, crafting, resting. No guilt, no rush, no sense that we were somehow behind because we weren’t racing through a mall before sunrise.

That pace felt human. This one doesn’t.

So this year, I'm officially opting out. No Black Friday. No inbox full of doorbusters. No running from store to store, hunting for a deal that may or may not actually be a deal. Instead, I’m keeping gifting simple, making some things, buying from small shops, maybe snagging a few handmade treasures from Etsy. I’m giving from the heart, not the marketing budget.

Because honestly? It’s never been about the price tag. The gifts I remember most weren’t the expensive ones. They were the meaningful ones.

And if I’m being even more honest, I secretly wish we’d all step back from the chaos. Less pressure. Less performance. Less running ourselves ragged for a holiday that was never meant to demand so much.

Imagine holidays that felt like holidays again, full of connection instead of commotion. Moments instead of obligations. Joy instead of debt.

This Black Friday, I’ll be home. Maybe crafting. Maybe watching a favorite holiday movie. Maybe finishing the book that’s been waiting for me all month. Whatever I do, I’ll do it because it nourishes me, not because someone told me I should.

Sometimes the real shift is remembering what mattered before the noise drowned everything out.

If this landed in your chest the way it did in mine when I wrote it, feel free to pass it along to someone who’s also exhausted by the holiday pressure cooker. Sometimes we forget how many people are quietly craving a softer, saner season. A little reminder like this can feel like a deep breath to someone who really needs it.