Thanksgiving has always been a season of togetherness in my life. Growing up, it was about gathering around the table with family, the smell of turkey wafting through the house, and the anticipation of pumpkin pie. As a mom, it became about the joy of creating that experience for my kids—the laughter, the traditions, and the full-hearted gratitude for all we had.
But after my son Sammy passed, Thanksgiving changed. The chair at the table where he once sat is empty now, and while the room is still filled with love, the absence of his voice, his laughter, and his vibrant energy is deafening. Grief doesn’t sit quietly in the corner on Thanksgiving. It takes up space at the table, weaving its way through the joy, reminding you of what’s missing even as you’re grateful for what remains.
If you’ve lost someone, you know this duality well—the strange, impossible dance of joy and pain living side by side. The laughter of loved ones fills the house, and yet there’s an ache beneath it all. You’re surrounded by family, but part of your heart is somewhere else, wishing they could be here too.
Navigating the Empty Chair
That empty chair at the table—it’s a wound that feels impossible to ignore. It’s the spot where they should be, the place they’d always claim, their laughter echoing across the room. For me, Sammy’s chair is a reminder of all the Thanksgivings we shared, but also all the ones we’ll never have.
For years, I tried to push through, pretending I was okay, holding back tears as everyone else passed the mashed potatoes and pie. But the truth is, grief doesn’t allow itself to be ignored. It demands to be felt. And over time, I’ve learned that the empty chair can hold something other than pain. It can hold memories, love, and even connection.
Each year, I try to find ways to weave Sammy into the day. I’ll tell a funny story about him, or imagine him walking beside me as I take the dog out for a stroll. I think about how he’d tackle the pumpkin—a dessert he’d always devour first, with whipped cream smeared across his grin. When we eat it now, it’s bittersweet, but it also makes me laugh, remembering how much he loved it.
If that feels too raw for you, it’s okay to keep it simple. You might light a candle in their honor, place a flower at their spot, or silently hold them in your heart. There’s no right or wrong way to hold space for your loved one. The only rule is to do what feels authentic to you.
Thanksgiving Is a Paradox
Thanksgiving reminds us to be grateful, but grief complicates gratitude. How can you feel thankful when part of your heart is missing? The truth is, the two can coexist. You can be thankful for the family and friends who gather with you, for the moments of love and connection, even as you feel the deep ache of what you’ve lost.
Grief teaches us to hold life’s paradoxes. It shows us that joy and sorrow aren’t opposites—they’re threads of the same fabric. At the Thanksgiving table, I’ve cried over Sammy’s absence and laughed at the memories of his antics. I’ve felt the warmth of family and the sting of his absence all at once. And that’s okay. It’s real.
Maybe for you, Thanksgiving looks different this year. Maybe you choose to skip the big gathering and spend the day in quiet reflection, or doing something fun and uplifting. Or maybe you do what I do and show up to the family table but excuse yourself for a moment when it gets overwhelming. There’s no script, no rules, no need to perform gratitude or pretend you’re okay. Thanksgiving is a paradox, and it’s messy—just like grief.
Finding Light in the Darkness
What I’ve learned is that at its core grief isn’t about loss—it’s about love. It’s about carrying the people we’ve lost forward in our hearts. And it’s about finding small moments of light, even on the hardest days.
For me, that light often comes in unexpected places: the hug of a family member who whispers, “I miss him too,” the warmth of a shared meal, or the beauty of a golden sunset. Sometimes it’s in a quiet moment when I step outside, feel the crisp air on my face, and know that Sammy is still with me—not in the way I want, but in a way that feels eternal.
These moments don’t erase the pain, but they remind me that love is still here. Sammy’s love is still here. It’s in the stories we tell, the traditions we carry forward, and the ways we honor him, even in our tears.
Honoring Your Journey
If you’re grieving this Thanksgiving, know that it’s okay to feel everything—the joy, the pain, the gratitude, and the longing. You don’t have to fix it, push through it, or make it look perfect. Let the day be messy and tender and uniquely yours.
You might laugh one minute and cry the next. You might need to take a walk outside to breathe or sit quietly in a room away from the noise. And that’s okay. However you choose to show up for this day is enough.
And remember, your loved one’s presence isn’t bound to a chair at the table. They’re in the love that surrounds you, the stories you tell, and the memories you hold close. Even if their chair is empty, their place in your heart is eternal.
This Thanksgiving, give yourself permission to grieve, to celebrate, and to simply be. Because love doesn’t disappear with loss—it only changes form. And in that love, they will always be with you.