Different Kinds of Thanksgivings

Thanksgiving is complicated when recovery is part of your story.

The holiday arrives with all its warmth and ritual and expectation, and gratitude is everywhere you turn. But when your family has lived through addiction, gratitude can look different. It is still there. It might be gratitude for safety. Gratitude for progress. Gratitude for the people holding you up. Sometimes it sits quietly next to worry. Sometimes it looks a lot like hope.

I've been thinking about where our families find themselves today.

Maybe your loved one is home this year.

They are at your table, and part of you can hardly believe it. You feel grateful in a way that catches in your throat. But you are also watching. You notice what they eat and what they leave untouched. You count how many times they leave the room. You listen closely to their tone, scanning for signs that things are okay. Or not okay. Then they reach for seconds of something you didn't even know they liked, and for a moment, your heart lifts. You want to relax into the day, but your body hasn't gotten the message. It is still on alert. It might be on alert for a long time. That is not a failure. It is what happens to a parent who has walked through this.

Maybe your loved one is at Woodhaven today, and you are not.

They are safe, and you are grateful for that safety. You know they are where they need to be. You trust the process. Our chef and executive director are making a beautiful meal. The boys will sit together at a long table, and it will be warm and full, and your son will be part of it. And still, there is a chair at your table that is empty. You catch yourself glancing at it. You wonder what he is doing at this moment, whether he is okay, whether he is thinking of you too. The gratitude and the sadness sit quietly beside one another. You can feel both at the same time. You are allowed to feel both.

Maybe you are spending Thanksgiving at Woodhaven with your son.

You drove here to be with him. You are sitting at a table that is not your dining room, surrounded by staff and other families, and somehow it still feels like Thanksgiving. In some ways, it feels like a table at home with out of town guests. The families who visit become part of this family too. You are grateful to see him. Grateful to sit beside him. You notice the effort it takes for him to get through the day. The pause before a smile. The welcome hug that feels a little uncomfortable. But you also see glimpses of who he is becoming, among people he connects to. You hold hope and worry at the same time. That is what love looks like in this season.

Maybe you are simply tired.

Months of this. Years of it. The phone calls, the worry, the decisions with no easy answer. Holidays that are supposed to feel light but haven't felt that way in a long time. You are running on fumes. That exhaustion is real. It is not weakness. It is what happens when you love someone through perhaps the hardest thing you have ever faced.

I remember the first Thanksgiving my loved one was away.

I stood in my kitchen doing all the things I always do. The turkey. The potatoes. The lasagna boiling over the bottom of my oven. The same rhythm I had followed for years. But this time, he was not going to come down the stairs. He was not going to sit at the table. I remember moving through each step as if I were underwater. I remember looking at his chair and wondering how I was going to make it through the meal.

That gap is so loud. It does not matter how many people are in the room. You feel the one who is not there.

If that is you today, I see you.

You are a parent who loves your child. That love is why you are still here. Still showing up. Still looking for small signs of progress. That love is the reason any of this works.

This year, my heart is also with the families of Woodhaven and with the family and friends who hold them up.

Some are home with their sons, navigating a visit and hoping it goes well. Some are at Woodhaven, sharing a meal and becoming part of this community. Some are apart, trusting the process and feeling the distance.

Every version of today is an act of love.

Here is what I want you to know.

There is so much to be grateful for, even when the table looks different than you planned.

Hope is one of those things. And hope is not just a feeling. It comes from evidence. The small signs of progress. The moments of growth you almost missed because you were bracing for the next crisis. The conversation that went better than expected. The phone call where they sounded like themselves again. The simple fact that they are still trying.

Stack the wins. Even the tiny ones. Especially the tiny ones.

Sometimes a win is just calm. No conflict. No crisis. A peaceful meal where everyone stays at the table.

Sometimes a win is acceptance. They are there. They are present. They are not fighting being part of the family or our community. 

Sometimes a win is gratitude. They say thank you. They look you in the eye. They let you love them for a moment without pushing you away.

These moments matter. They add up. You have been in survival mode for so long that your mind looks for what might go wrong. Today, try to notice what is going right.

You can read these words and know that you are surrounded by parents who understand what you are carrying.

Be gentle with yourself. One moment at a time. One breath. One dish passed across the table.

You do not have to do this perfectly. There is no perfect. There is only showing up, again and again, even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard.

You are not alone.

On Friday morning, our Woodhaven parents will gather and share how the day went. I am already looking forward to those stories.

With gratitude for this community that holds us all.

Happy Thanksgiving.