Kate Didd

A Thanksgiving Story Dripping With Nostalgia, Calm, and the Soft Edges of a Life Rebuilt

Let’s take a pause on the plot of my accidental romcom, whatever chapter of chaotic tenderness I’m floating through right now, and slip into the slice of life that actually matters. The one that unfolds quietly, deliberately, and without needing an audience.

Thanksgiving morning, I woke in complete and utter peace. The kind of peace that settles into you before you’re fully awake. The sun shone through my bedroom, curtains glowing gold across my bed like soft brushstrokes from a world that finally decided I deserved warmth. And I breathed, slow, grounding, steady because I knew exactly how the day would go. Predictable, gentle, whole. Isn’t that the point of everything? Just waking up and knowing you’re safe.

My Thanksgiving was beautiful. Unhurried. Familiar. Fresh fruit on the counter. Coffee weaving through the house like a hug. Snacks that somehow lasted from breakfast to dinner without guilt or rush. Stories read aloud to my boys. My youngest twirling my hair the way my brother once did when we were little, twisting and tangling it until I laughed and thought, well, it must be a family specialty to ruin Mom’s hair before noon.

Some of us never had the luxury of good examples we had to become them. And I failed a lot along the way. I own that now, but only after losing people I loved fiercely but loved in ways that hurt. My reactions to my own abusive world left marks I can’t un-break. But what I can do is choose better now. Live intentionally. Show my children what steady love feels like.

My world isn’t firefly chaos anymore. It’s the rhythm of a knife tapping on a cutting board while laughter swirls around me. It’s watching my middle child’s eyes brighten as he learns new things he once struggled with his pride rising gently through the calm we’re building together. It’s my daughter quietly learning how to be both fierce and soft at the same time, absorbing the balance I fought so hard to find. It’s dancing in the kitchen me, them, and all our mismatched music from what I grew up listening to, to whatever they’re obsessed with now.

This year they were adamant: no traditional Thanksgiving. They wanted something different. So they picked the menu, ditched what they didn’t want, and we rolled with it. The turkey came free, a gift and the sides ended up being this beautiful, chaotic blend of “why not?” choices that made the day entirely ours.

Chopped herbs melting in butter. Basting the turkey like a quiet ritual. Pies cooling on the counter, dripping with the promise of sweetness. None of it was perfect, but all of it was real. And what I’m learning, maybe for the first time, is how to see the present moment without longing for something else. To hold what’s wonderful right in front of me.

I’m not building memories for elderly relatives who never made space for me. They can keep their guilt-tripping holiday politics far from my table. I’m over people pretending holidays erase their lack of accountability. If I don’t talk to you all year, you’re not suddenly invited now.

Instead, we ask intentional questions about dreams, hopes, worries, joys. We talk through the good and bad of the day while fully listening to each other. It’s completely backwards from how I grew up. Backwards from how many people still live.

How many times were you asked to step out of a family photo because you “weren’t really part of it”? It stings until it doesn’t. And then you realize you’re building new memories the kind your children will carry into adulthood. This year was just for us. Maybe that’s selfish. Or maybe it’s finally right.

Dinner went off effortlessly. Their dad showed up. There were smiles and gifts. And yes, I did include him in the annual Christmas pajama tradition, because some traditions deserve to be whole if they’re healthy enough to hold everyone gently. The kids lit up, and for a moment, everything felt like it should: steady, simple, warm.

I hope these calm, intentional holidays become their forever baseline. So when they step into chaotic homes in the future, they look around and realize, this isn’t normal. I hope they never internalize the scream-filled rooms, the isolation, the “you don’t matter” messages that once shaped me. My life was judged for not being traditional, but somehow the life I’m building has more love, more impact, more truth than anything I ever saw growing up.

I am eternally grateful for my messy, complicated story. Over the last few days, I’ve told some wild chapters from my past, but the joy I feel now is undeniable: I’ve made a difference. Enough that I can sit quietly and listen, knowing my achievements could overshadow others but I won’t let them. I’ll clap the loudest. I’ll cheer the longest. Because my kids will surpass me. They should.

They will be better. Kinder. Calmer. More prosperous. More loving.

And they will experience the holidays with me not in spite of me, not around me, but with me.

That’s how I know I’ve healed:

I no longer care about anyone else’s approval more than I care about them.