This season tends to stir up a lot—plans, traditions, and expectations we barely notice we’re carrying. Many of us step into hosting or attending with the best intentions: to make people feel welcome, cared for, and nourished. But sometimes, in the swirl of doing, we lose the part that matters most—the part where we actually get to be with the people we’re trying to love.
It’s surprisingly easy to slip into automatic roles—doing all the cooking, arranging, and showing up—without pausing to ask why, and in that rush, we sometimes forget to bring ourselves along.
When we show up without intention, it costs us in quiet ways—energy we don’t replenish, and moments that could have refueled us but didn’t. If we never consider how we want to experience these gatherings, we slip into endurance mode instead of receiving anything nourishing for ourselves.
So lately I’ve been holding a quieter question: What’s my intention when I gather with people?
Not the polished version. Just the simple truth.
Maybe it’s to enjoy each other; to create a soft moment in a busy week; to feel connected again. Maybe it’s to offer comfort–or to receive it.
And sometimes, when I’m honest, I notice that I’m saying yes because it’s what I’ve always done, because I don’t want to disappoint someone, or because I’m afraid of how it might look if I step back. I still, to this day, when asked to contribute to a meal I’ve been invited to, bring the item they asked for . . . plus another dish. Or two.
It comes from love and generosity, yes—but also a small part of me is wanting to be “enough.” Wanting to be easy. Wanting to ensure I’m not a burden. Overgiving can be my way of balancing the scales before anyone asks me to.
There are so many ways people keep an internal ledger during this season. But tracking it all is exhausting. At least, I’ve discovered it is. This Thanksgiving, when I show up at my dear friend’s house with a stuffed pumpkin, I want my intention to be simple: to feel grateful for connection, for the rare chance to sit with people I love, and to enjoy the kind of time together I can only witness around a shared table.
Here’s a small practice for this month if you want it: Before you say yes to hosting, cooking, attending, or organizing anything, name your intention. One sentence. Then listen for warmth, ease, or tightness—not as judgments; just as information.
The heart of gathering—any time of year—is connection. We don’t earn that with perfection or volume. We feel it when we show up as ourselves, steady and willing to actually join the moment we’re creating.
Sometimes the most caring choice isn’t pushing through. It’s choosing the version of the moment where we can be present, relaxed, and able to take your seat at the table—not only prepare it.
