This year, you’re not waking up at 5 a.m. to baste a turkey.
You’re not squeezing ten dishes into one oven. You’re not mediating cousin drama. You’re not spending your energy on centerpieces, seating charts, or that one aunt who still asks why you’re not hosting at your house.
No, this year you’re choosing a different kind of Thanksgiving.
You’re boarding a plane. With your partner. Or your kids. Or your best friend. Or maybe just a good book and your peace. And yes, you’ll brave the TSA line at JFK—the one that moves slower than molasses in November—but it’s worth it. Because for once, you’re giving yourself permission to skip the performance of tradition and lean into presence.
Not absence. Presence.
You’re still doing family. But maybe it’s a beach rental in Tulum. Or a Black-owned bed & breakfast in New Orleans. Or a cabin in upstate New York where no one is arguing over politics, just passing the spiced cider.
You’re still reflecting. Still giving thanks. But you’re doing it in leggings, with your feet up, dancing to Donny Hathaway in the kitchen, showing your kids you still know every step to 'Before I Let Go,' while the cranberry sauce comes from a jar (and nobody complains).
Because the holiday doesn’t need to look like it did in 1998 to mean something. And womanhood in your forties? It means you get to write your own rituals.
You’re not anti-family. You’re anti-frenzy. You’re not against cooking. You just don’t need to prove anything with your sweet potato pie.
This Thanksgiving, you’re reclaiming joy. Reclaiming time. Reclaiming yourself.
And you’ll toast to that—from 30,000 feet in the air, boarding group A, sunglasses on, with a carry-on full of books, linen pants, and snacks for the flight.
Happy holidays, darling.
And if you’re stuck in that JFK line? Just remember: at least you’re not stuck explaining your relationship status between forkfuls of stuffing.
xo,
Krystal Phillips