When the Quiet Feels Louder
There is something about Thanksgiving that makes grief feel louder.
Maybe it’s the smells that bring back memories you didn’t even know were still sitting in your heart. Maybe it’s the way the table looks the same even when life feels completely different. Or maybe it’s just the quiet — the still moments when you stop long enough to feel who isn’t there.
This Thanksgiving looks different for me.
This is another year without Q, and I’m still learning how to carry that space he left behind.
Grief Doesn’t Take Holidays Off
Grief doesn’t take breaks for holidays. If anything, it walks into the kitchen with me. It sits on the counter while I prepare food. It stands in the doorway while I move around the house getting everything ready. It shows up in the places where laughter used to bounce the most.
Q had a way of making holidays feel steady. He didn’t need to be the loudest in the room or the one doing everything. His presence was enough. He had that quiet, grounding way about him that made everything feel safe.
The Quiet Ways He Showed Up
He’d wander into the kitchen while I was cooking, pretending he was just “checking on things,” when really he was sneaking little tastes here and there. I’d turn my back and suddenly something would be missing, and he’d just smile like he’d done nothing at all.
He’d help without making a big deal out of it. Carrying platters. Moving things where they needed to go. Making sure everything felt smooth and calm. He had this gentle way of stepping in without ever asking to be noticed.
That’s what I miss most.
Not just the big moments, but the small, steady ones. The way he made the room feel full just by standing in it. The way he looked at the kids. The way he made ordinary days feel anchored.
When Traditions Feel Different
Now, Thanksgiving carries a different kind of weight.
Some traditions still feel comforting. Others feel heavy. There are recipes I still make because they feel like a warm hug. There are moments that feel sharp because they remind me too much of what used to be.
And still — time moves forward.
At first, that felt wrong. It felt like betrayal to smile or laugh or enjoy a moment when he wasn’t there to see it. I thought if I let myself feel any joy, it meant I wasn’t honoring him enough.
What Grief Has Taught Me
But grief has a way of teaching you things you never wanted to learn.
I’ve learned that loving someone doesn’t stop just because they’re not sitting at the table anymore. I’ve learned that laughter and loss can exist in the same breath. I’ve learned that remembering doesn’t have to be loud.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it shows up in the way we set the table, the way we serve people first, the way we slow down and look at each other a little longer.
Seeing Him in the Everyday Moments
I see Q in those moments. I see him in the way the kids care for each other. I see him in the way they speak with kindness. I see him in the strength they show even when it’s hard. And I feel him most when the house is busy and loud, but my heart feels still for a second.
Grief hasn’t gone away. I don’t expect it ever will. I carry it with me like a shadow. Some days it’s light. Some days it feels like it wraps around my chest and tightens.
But I don’t try to push it away anymore. I let it sit beside me.
Holding Gratitude and Grief Together
This Thanksgiving, I will move through the motions I’ve done a hundred times before. I will cook food that holds memories in the smell of it. I will arrange platters at a table that feels both full and not full enough.
And I will feel both.
Blessed and broken.
Thankful and aching.
Grateful and grieving.
For Anyone Carrying Heartache This Season
If you’re walking into this season feeling the same way, I want you to know something: you’re not doing it wrong.
You’re not wrong if you cry while you’re cooking. You’re not wrong if you step away for a moment to breathe. You’re not wrong if you laugh harder than you thought you could.
There is no right way to grieve a holiday. There is no perfect way to carry someone you love through a season they can’t physically be in. You carry them by living. By remembering. By loving.
Choosing Grace This Thanksgiving
This Thanksgiving, I will say his name quietly in my heart. I will thank God for the years I had with him instead of only grieving the ones I don’t. I will let the sadness come when it needs to. And I will let the joy come when it surprises me.
Because grief doesn’t mean love stopped. And gratitude doesn’t mean pain left. It just means we are learning to live with both.
And if you’re carrying your own quiet heartache into this holiday, I hope you give yourself grace. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to be here. And that’s enough.
