Thankful For

Every year, I dread the idea that I’ll be asked what I’m thankful for at the Thanksgiving table. Not that this happens very often in my family. We tried it once, but it flopped. Probably because my husband went first and said he was thankful for me, and then I went next and said, likewise, I was thankful for him.

Eyeroll.

It’s not that I’m not thankful for something each year. Deeply thankful. But that’s the issue. The things I’m most grateful for feel too personal to share because while I typically have my emotions on lockdown in public, if I had to speak on what I was really, truly thankful for each year, I’d be a blubbering catastrophe. And then everyone at the table would feel awkward and uncomfortable. So now whenever I’m asked what I’m thankful for, I cop out. It’s for everyone’s benefit, really.

But I can write about it just fine without you seeing the expression on my face, so here it is: this year I’m thankful for basic health.

For context, my body began breaking down in 2019. At the time, I wrote it off as postpartum, perimenopause, stress, pandemic times—all of the above. My symptoms came on slowly. Insomnia first; I’d fall asleep only to be immediately yanked back out of it like I was sleeping in a well-lit interrogation room. The only way to shake it was to stand up, pace around my bed, and try again once my body stopped feeling like pins and needles.

From there, new symptoms piled on, though it took several years to settle into full misery. I was a frog in boiling water. A much older, heavier, inflamed version of myself. I knew I was visibly falling apart. I could see judgment and pity reflected back at me; could still read micro-expressions even when avoiding eye contact. My only recourse was dissociation.

My body was a prison, and I was trapped inside. Still very much me internally—the same thoughts, humor, preferences—but nobody was talking to me. They spoke to my malfunctioning vessel if they addressed me at all. If I said anything insightful or funny, it didn’t land. Not the way it used to.

What I didn’t know then was that my problem had a relatively simple solution. As it turns out, I had severe iron-deficiency anemia. No amount of “pushing harder” was ever going to fix it. Every attempt I’d made to fix myself made things worse: diets, fasting, supplements, workouts… All potentially harmful in the context of what I was dealing with.

I finally got my ferritin checked in May, got an iron infusion a few weeks later, and I’ve been slowly coming back to life ever since. The change has been notable, but I didn’t come out unscathed. The type of slow humiliation that comes from collapsing publicly leaves its mark, and this is not the first time I’ve struggled in a more visible way than I’d prefer.

But that’s okay. It’ll all make for good material in my book someday.

Still, I’m thankful. My brain can think clearly again, my body can move more easily, and regular sleep—oh, how I missed you.

Mostly, I’m thankful for resilience, and that my mind kept me guarded from just how bad things really were until I had a solution. That my body is still capable of healing and being productive and creative again.

It’s a lot to be thankful for.

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