Thanksgiving is a week away, and I couldn’t be less excited. Granted, I’ve never enjoyed this particular holiday. Actually, it feels more like it was never meant for me. I’m not a person who enjoys turkey, green beans, or relationships with extended family. Some of that is on purpose, and some is just a matter of circumstance.

Growing up, my parents, my brother and I would endure the yearly odyssey of getting from Central New Jersey to Long Island, New York. These weren’t remarkably fun or memorable ventures; I mainly remember it took too long to get to dessert once we were there. My uncle – our most recent host – had a million-dollar house that never felt like a home. Before that, my grandfather had a sitting room you couldn’t breathe in without risk of marring something. As boring as this was for me, these were not conducive places for my brother: the hurricane of the family, always stimming, pacing, and stuffing his face without use of utensils. Most years, my father would be sequestered with him in a separate room, half asleep and last to eat because someone else had to bring him a plate.

I’m 30 years old now. My grandfather, sadly, is dead. My uncle, sadly, is a bigot who I don’t speak to. My immediately family is a plane ride away, and COVID-19 has excused me from other family gatherings. I would be remiss to thank the pandemic for anything, because nothing is worth 750,000 brutal, unnecessary deaths. However, I appreciate the break for those like me who have never found joy at a large dinner table, surrounded by blood but isolated from loved ones, quietly hiding a dying smartphone in their lap. You truly understand the hell that is counting your blessings out loud among those you have never been yourself with.  

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Speaking of blessings, I’m in liminal space right now where it’s tough to practice gratitude: the week before starting a new job. This is a job I am very excited about, but it came to me in the midst of such upheaval. Hours prior, I was rejected for an opportunity that meant the world to me. It also meant the plan I’d carefully laid out for myself was forfeit, and my sense of belonging at this particular organization was abruptly cut. It sounds dramatic because it was. Heartbreaking, too.

Yet, I reacted with anger. If you know me, you know that’s quite unlike me.

Anger, as I’ve learned, is the part of you that loves you the most. It’s the part of you that knows you did your best, that you’ve busted your ass, and that you deserve better. I have struggled with accepting anger my entire life, always dismissing it in favor of something gentler. Something easier, maybe, to internalize and forget. But not last week. No, I was freely and uncharacteristically livid up to the moment I accepted the job (arguably a much better-for-me job) I’ll be eagerly starting the Tuesday before Turkey Day.

At the very least, that is progress that I am grateful for.

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While I have space to rest and prepare in these days before my next chapter, it’s all so narrow and temporary. Kind of like an airport, or the bathroom at a bar. You’re only there for a while, coming from one place, going to another, making the best of an uncomfortable moment. I’m geared up in my joggers and my sweaters, forgoing a bra by choice and an itinerary by circumstance. It’s hard to be poised and productive in a place you can’t settle for very long, after all.

Still, I am grateful opportunity to travel, figuratively speaking. To grow. To flex young muscles and help them get strong with this new, very public career. All my life, I’ve wanted to be visible – a person of import, a source of inspiration. Maybe envy, sometimes. I mean, living well is the best revenge.

However, a small part of me is wary of what could go wrong, and of things that will matter now that maybe didn’t have to before: screentime, burnout, evolving trends, algorithms. It feels a little like an unexpected connection flight after a freak storm. All I have is what I brought with me. Everything else will have to be figured out along the way.

The ultimate point I’m trying to make is this: in this season of gratitude, I think it’s alright to be frustrated. Angry. Afraid. Upset. Intimidated. You can exist at the intersection.

More, I think gratitude breeds Imposter Syndrome in unexpected ways, and being grateful for something can also feel like getting away with something. Transparently, in a year where I am absurdly grateful for my health, I feel absurdly guilty for complaining about anything else. It’s another tight, liminal space to occupy as I shift between good and bad days, closed and open doors, challenges and victories, Thanksgiving and Christmas (the superior holiday on all fronts).

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I spent Thanksgiving 2020 in bed with a 102-degree fever and an unrelenting stomach bug. Maybe it was COVID. Maybe it was the takeout burger and fries I ate hours before. This year, I’ll be grateful just to stand upright.

And, to stay that way.