Stuffing, laughter, and absent friends
This year, I’m hosting my first Thanksgiving at my own house, meaning chaos, smoke alarms, and the very real possibility that someone will eat all the stuffing before dinner. And yet, as I run through my mental checklist of mashed potatoes, gravy, and rolls, my mind drifts to the seats I wish were filled. Not just family, but friends from a Thanksgiving many years ago, far from home in Sierra Vista, Arizona, Fort Huachuca, Advanced Individual Training (AIT).
I was 20 years old and facing my first holiday without my family. The military, ever organized and accommodating, made room at tables for strays like me. My roommate Hallenbeck, a fiery-haired woman with big brown eyes, about my height, was adopted alongside me by a family whose name I’ve long forgotten but whose warmth I still carry. They welcomed us into their home, fed us, laughed with us, and gave us a slice of normalcy in the middle of an otherwise impossible experience. I remember how it felt to be seen, to be included, to be home, even when I was thousands of miles from the people who gave me my first breath.
This year, those memories hit harder. Some of my friends from that time are deployed across the Middle East. Others are wandering Europe, seeing the world while I carve a turkey here at home. Some were able to go home on leave, lucky enough to hug their families. And some, some have since passed on. Hosting Thanksgiving is stressful, yes. But it’s a holiday built for gratitude, even if you have to dodge flying rolls in the kitchen while pretending nothing’s on fire.
I’ve shared stories of grenade launcher mishaps, uniformed chaos, and other ridiculous moments from my service. But there are quieter moments too, moments that don’t make the headlines, moments that weigh heavier on your heart. Moments when you think about those you love and those who made sacrifices, often unseen, because they signed the papers you didn’t. I may never fully understand the depth of active duty sacrifice, but I’ve felt fragments of it during my own service in the National Guard, and I know enough to be profoundly grateful.
During 12 weeks of basic training and nearly 17–18 weeks of AIT, strangers became family. Pushups over fire ant hills. Rucks through thick woods. V-ups in mud until someone puked. Punishment laps in pouring rain while a drill sergeant yelled that his five-month-old could do it better. And in quiet barracks, under the red glow of night lights, we shared dreams, hopes, and the occasional whispered game of I-Spy or Hangman, trading MRE tabasco bottles as currency for laughter. One friend wanted citizenship. Another wanted to provide for her baby. Others dreamed of education, adventure, or just a better life. And me? I was just trying to build a future, a life that felt bigger than my own backyard.
Moving to AIT, the fire ant hills became Arizona desert dunes, the muddy laps became endless hours in computer labs. The bonding didn’t fade, it grew. I learned how to rely on people I barely knew, how to find humor in impossible situations, and how a shared struggle can turn strangers into family. That year taught me something important: Thanksgiving isn’t just about what’s on your plate. It’s about the people you hold in your heart, the people you miss, the empty chairs scattered across the world that remind you how lucky you are to have even the chaos of home.
So as you carve your turkey and dodge kitchen chaos this year, take a moment. Think about the absent. Remember the sacrifices. Save a little extra pie for the memories, the laughter, the friends far away or gone. Be grateful, not just for mashed potatoes, not just for gravy, but for the people who made you who you are, who shaped your world, who carried you through fire ant hills, mud, and rain with nothing but a shared laugh and a little bit of hope.
And if you’re really feeling generous, toast them. Toast the empty seats, the full hearts, and maybe even the smoke alarm that keeps life interesting. Because that’s Thanksgiving. Chaos, tears, laughter, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for every single person who ever sat at your table, even if only in your heart.