Tọlá Belva

Thanksgiving morning on this side didn’t exactly begin with the warm, cozy vibes you’d expect. No smell of roasting turkey, no cheerful holiday music. Instead, it started with me launching into a coughing fit that probably made my neighbors question if I was trying to communicate with them through ‘Morse code.’

The flu, which had been quietly lurking for days, decided today was the perfect moment to make its grand entrance. My voice? A mix between a broken accordion and a goose with feelings. My nose? Let’s just say it’s been putting in overtime as a faucet.

I had plans today. Real, social plans. You know, mingling, eating delicious food, pretending I’m better at small talk than I actually am. But as I stood in front of the mirror, looking like a combination of sleep deprivation and bad decisions, I knew: plans were canceled. Instead, I wrapped myself in a blanket, grabbed a mug of hot tea, and surrendered to the soothing, judgment-free arms of Netflix. No house party, just a couch and my growling collection of used tissues.

The kids, of course, have been troopers. Well, mostly. They’ve been asking about Moana 2 for what feels like an eternity. “Mom, are we still going this weekend? Do you think we’ll get popcorn? How many more days?” It’s like living with tiny event planners who only care about animated island adventures. I reassured them with the confidence of a mom holding it together with tea and hope: Yes, we’re going. Flu or no flu, we are going.

Because, come on—if Moana can sail across the ocean to save her people, surely I can make it to the movie theater, armed with a bottle of hand sanitizer and a box of tissues. But… who am I kidding? I really hope I feel better by then. The last thing I want to do is be that person spreading germs in a packed theater. “Welcome to the movies! Here’s your popcorn and a side of flu.” No thanks.

For now, we’re making the best of it. Dinner plans? Let’s just say they’re flexible. My youngest and I aren’t exactly turkey superfans. Turkey’s fine—it’s respectable—but if it vanished from the holiday menu, we’d move on pretty quickly. My oldest, on the other hand, is a turkey loyalist through and through. Thanksgiving without turkey? Blasphemy. So, we’re making both: a turkey for the traditionalist and something less bird-centric for the rest of us. It’s a bit chaotic, a bit nontraditional, but it’s ours.

And honestly, that’s what Thanksgiving is really about. It’s not about a perfectly set table or a meal that looks like it belongs in a magazine. It’s about showing up however you can and finding joy in the little moments. The messy, imperfect, “we’re doing our best” moments.

Gratitude is kind of like a secret weapon. It has this magical way of turning everything around. When you focus on what you have instead of what you don’t, the constant buzzing of “not enough” starts to fade. The mind, which usually runs like it’s late for a very important date, slows down. You realize that even in the chaos, even with the flu, there are things to be thankful for. A warm home. Kids who make you laugh between sneezes. The promise of better days—and maybe some popcorn with a side of Moana.

To anyone spending Thanksgiving alone—by choice or circumstance—you are seen. Solitude isn’t a void; it’s a space. A space to rest, reflect, and reconnect with yourself. If all you did today was exist quietly, that’s enough. You don’t have to justify it or explain it. Sometimes, choosing peace over a crowded room is the best thing you can do for yourself.

To those navigating grief this holiday season, I see you. The holidays have a way of shining a spotlight on everything we’ve lost, and it can feel overwhelming. Be gentle with yourself. Grief doesn’t have a timeline, and there’s no right or wrong way to move through it. If today feels heavy, that’s okay. You’re allowed to feel it all—the sadness, the joy, the in-between.

There’s so much pressure to make holidays look a certain way. To show up, smile, and be the life of the party. But here’s a little secret: It’s perfectly okay to skip the party, to choose rest over noise, to stay home in your pajamas and let the day be as simple as it needs to be. If today looks like tea, blankets, and a quiet house, that’s a celebration in itself.

So here I am—Thanksgiving, flu and all—wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by tissues, and waiting for this weekend’s adventure.

Grateful for kids who remind me to stay excited about small things. Grateful for a home that lets me rest. Grateful for the beauty in the imperfect moments. Grateful for quiet moments that remind me it’s okay to slow down.

Here’s to the Thanksgivings that don’t follow the script. The ones where plans change, where the turkey isn’t the star, and where gratitude sneaks in between coughs and laughter. Here’s to knowing that sometimes, rest is the most important thing you can give yourself.

And if all else fails? There’s always Moana —and an illusory trip to the sea.