Unstuffing Thanksgiving

Ditching Expectations, Keeping the Connection

You know the Thanksgiving us millenials grew up with in the 90s? Smiling Pilgrims, friendly Native people, perfectly polite harvest feasts—zero blood, zero struggle, zero nuance. It’s the equivalent of a Disney-fied Grimm fairy tale, polished so clean you could eat off it. Comforting, sure. But patently untrue.

Now, I’m not claiming to have the whole holiday thing figured out. Mickey and I are only in year two of unraveling the traditions we inherited and started from scratch. But a few years ago, I looked up and realized that the stuff we inherited—the rituals, the scripts, the expectations—wasn’t doing what holidays are supposed to do. It wasn’t slowing us down, making us feel alive, or connecting us to anything bigger than our collective cultural storybook. (Quite the opposite, in fact.)

And listen, I’m no historian, and I encourage you to dig into the full story if you want. But a quick spin through history: the original 1621 gathering? A three-day harvest feast. Over the years, Thanksgiving popped up in one-off celebrations after wars and victories. Lincoln made it official during the Civil War to boost morale. FDR fiddled with the date for Depression-era retail (because, of course), and by the 1980s, “Black Friday” was born. Our modern Thanksgiving? Part history, part marketing, all performance.

However, long before Thanksgiving had a name, before turkey and pumpkin pie, humans were marking the harvest. Living in harmony with nature, they were noticing the turning of the seasons, the shortening of days, the ripening of fruit and grain. They gathered, they laughed, they feasted, they sang to the sun and danced for the rain, honoring the earth, the water, the sky, and the harvest. It wasn’t about a calendar or a proclamation. For them, it was about survival and appreciation. About remembering that life is fragile and fleeting, and it’s meant to be fully experienced and cherished.

Contrast that with the modern, choreographed family-gathering version of Thanksgiving? It’s the disappointing reboot of a millennia-old tradition. The tight smiles and unspoken negotiations. The “please just keep the peace” energy. The holidays have become a sort of theater. Sometimes sweet, sometimes sentimental, sometimes traumatizing, but always draining (at least, that’s been my experience).

Choosing between parades, politics, and pandering or the intentional, slow, sacred rhythm of the season? It’s no contest. I’ll take the earthy, elemental version every time. The one that makes you pause, notice, and feel like you actually belong in the world, celebrating exactly as humans have been since forever.

I’ll fully admit, it’s much easier for Mickey and myself to reclaim our holidays because we’re both no-contact with parents. And yes, while that brings its own emotional fuckery, it also gave us freedom. Freedom from guilt, obligations, and pressure that used to make me wish I could just pop an edible and hibernate until January. Without that weight, building a holiday from scratch wasn’t just possible, it was downright joyful. We now get to create a Thanksgiving that actually resonates with this version of us, on our terms, and in our own rhythm.

And it is so nice. Our holiday no longer begins in a cacophony of chaos and passive aggressive conversations all before coffee. Last year, I went outside, barefoot, with hot coffee in hand, breathing in the cold air, stretching, grounding, whispering gratitude to the morning sun. (Yes, whispering. Just because I’m a flower child doesn’t mean I need my neighbors to call an intervention.) That’s the first beat of our new Thanksgiving rhythm: slowing down enough to be in the energy of gratitude.

Then comes my favorite part: cooking with Mickey. This will be year two of tamales. And I gotta say, there’s something super magical about the slow, intentional labor. Slow cooking the meat, roasting the peppers, making the masa, wrapping each bundle and tying it with a little bow, and then steaming them in small batches.

There’s no rushing, no yelling, no frantic get-it-done energy. Just the beat of the music, busy hands, swaying hips, teasing, laughing, and the kind of conversation that only comes when you happily have nowhere else to be. By the end of the day, we’re red-stained, exhausted, and proud. The tamales become more than food they become a ritual, a ceremony, grounding us back into the slowness of the season.

Last year, after the last tamale was wrapped and in the steam pot, we shifted gears and took a moment to pause. We each wrote down what we were grateful to release—the beliefs, patterns, and stories that felt heavy or expired. We burned those papers outside, watching the smoke rise, ash returning to the earth. Then we stood in the grass and talked about our gratitude for what we were welcoming in. No pressure or resolutions. Just presence.

When we eat, tradition takes a backseat. Connection, presence, and the season itself are the main course. Tamales first, pumpkin pie second (obviously). But we’re not acting out a Norman Rockwell scene here, we’re fully present, and as cheesy as it sounds, letting our rituals feed more than just our stomachs.

Reclaiming Thanksgiving has taught me something fundamental: holidays, like life, are what we make them. They can be rushed, performative, and draining—or slow, intentional, and grounding. The choice is ours. And in choosing presence over autopilot and gratitude over obligation, we’ve found a holiday that actually feels true. One that fuels our energy instead of drains it.

So here’s my note to you, dear reader: whatever your Thanksgiving looks like this year, let it be yours. Let it be messy, slow, intentional, joyful, and real. Pay attention to the turning season, the people you love, and the small miracles hiding in plain sight. Show up for it. Taste it. Feel it. Celebrate it.

Life’s meant to be fully experienced and appreciated. And if we can take even a bit of that ancient harvest wisdom and show up with gratitude in our modern lives, maybe that’s the truest energy of the season.

Tamales optional. Intention mandatory.

Intentionally,
Shan