The Empty Chair at Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving used to be one of my favorite holidays.
The smell of turkey, laughter in the kitchen, everyone gathered around the table, it always felt like a warm exhale after a long year. But when you’ve lost a child, holidays take on a different shape.

There’s an ache that doesn’t quite fit anywhere.
The world still expects gratitude, to name what you’re thankful for, to gather and celebrate, but grief has its own language. It doesn’t always speak in “thank yous.”

This year, I set a spot for my son, Austin.
It felt right and impossible all at once. His plate sat quietly beside me, a symbol of love and an echo of everything missing. Everyone around the table was talking, passing dishes, eating, and for a moment, I couldn’t hear anything but the silence of that empty chair.

How do you give thanks when your heart is broken?

Well we tried, we went around the table and each of us shared what we are thankful for, a tradition we have always done.
Then I realized you do it the only way you can, by breathing through it. By showing up for the family that still surrounds you, even when you’d rather hide and cry for days. By remembering that love didn’t end the day they died. It just changed forms.

I am thankful for the years I had with Austin.
For the laughter that still rings in my memory.
For the family who loves me through the waves.
And maybe most of all, for the strength to keep setting that place at the table, even when it hurts like hell.

Grief and gratitude can live in the same room.
They don’t cancel each other out. One simply reminds us how deeply we’ve loved.

So if you’re facing your own empty chair this Thanksgiving, be gentle with yourself. It’s okay if your gratitude looks more like tears than smiles this year. Sometimes the bravest kind of thankfulness is simply surviving the day.