Conscious Living

Obsidian Memo]🍁 Returning to the Table: Notes on Thanksgiving, Distance, and Beauty of Gentle Caring Presence

Hi All,

This year marks my eighth Thanksgiving abroad outside the US. Usually, November means London—grey skies, long walks across the Thames, a dinner with friends, and my own rituals of reflection.

Before the era of London Novembers, my own version of a “Thanksgiving tradition” was shaped across my years in Canada and the U.S.

Growing up, Thanksgiving traditions included:

The great pie debates: apple vs. pumpkin vs. sweet potato topped with marshmallows.
(I always sneaked bites of the pumpkin pie before it reached the table.)
The annual search for more gravy, sending someone on a last-minute grocery run minutes before dinner.
The endless catalogue of turkey recipes that everyone swore were “the best,” while I quietly admitted—mostly to myself—that I didn’t like turkey at all.
I was there for the stuffing, always.
The warmth of mismatched chairs, borrowed casserole dishes, and the gentle chaos of multicultural Thanksgivings where family was created with my friends and host families.

But this year unfolded differently. I found myself in South Korea, back in my childhood home, navigating a family health emergency and spending more time in hospital corridors than anywhere else.

My paternal grandfather spent the last decade of his life bedridden in a hospital, so medical spaces have never been unfamiliar. But something shifts when you’re no longer a visitor—you’re part of the unit holding the emotional weight of a family. In these in-between moments, between ICU updates and cups of 3 am convenience-store coffee, gratitude rearranges itself.

Last night, I decided—very last-minute—to host a small Thanksgiving at home. Nothing elaborate. Just enough warmth, colour, and good food to remind us that life still moves. My parents could not care less about the holiday itself, but I was happy simply to bring a sense of normalcy back into the house. A gesture of steadiness. A gentle offering of love.

For more than two decades, I’ve lived abroad, often operating in what I call “execution mode”—the relentless rhythm of study, work, responsibility, survival, and ambition. At times, it has felt like “war mode,” where your entire nervous system is wired to build, deliver, and keep moving. But life eventually slows you down, not as punishment, but as a moment of return.

Being here has softened something in me.

There are collateral damages that come with a mission-led life: the distance, the absence, the silent guilt of missing years that don’t come back. This season offered a small window to acknowledge that gap—and to fill a tiny part of it with presence, food, conversation, and the tenderness of simply showing up.

And I’m grateful for that.

Grateful for the chance to pause.
Grateful that our family is out of the ICU.
Grateful that even after so many years of being away, there are still ways to offer care.
Grateful for the resilience threaded through my lineage—the strength that carries us forward despite the fractures.

This Thanksgiving wasn’t polished. It wasn’t planned.
But it felt real.

It brought back some childhood memories - my older sister and I used to throw a surprise holiday breakfast for our parents, waking up super early in the morning when it was still dark outside.

Sometimes the most meaningful rituals are the ones we create in the middle of a storm—not because everything is perfect, but because love needs somewhere to land.

As we enter the holiday season, I’m holding onto this simple truth:
softening is also a form of strength. I also learned that 'cooking' is my love language.

And returning—however imperfectly—is its own kind of healing.

How was your Thanksgiving? What are you most grateful for at this moment in time, whether you celebrate Thanksgiving or not?