THANKSGIVING CONFESSIONS FROM THE UNCOVERED LIFE

Every Thanksgiving, I used to drag myself to my aunt’s house. It was always the same scene: too much food, too many questions, and everyone pretending they’ve been living interesting lives. We’d do the same polite dance: hugs, updates, gossip, and that inevitable interrogation about what I’d been doing with my year.

And every time, I had a new story. A new job. A new passion. A new city. Something that made me feel alive again.

But instead of pride, I always felt guilt. Like I was the unstable one because I refused to choose one version of myself and die inside it.

Meanwhile, my cousins clocked in and out of the same jobs for decades. They vacationed in the same condo every summer, argued with the same people about the same tired crap, and called it a life. It’s not judgment, it’s just truth. Predictability can feel like a coffin lined with comfort.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped apologizing for changing. For wandering. For wanting more.

I realized that while their roots kept them safe, mine grew wild in places they’d never dare to dig. My life doesn’t look stable from the outside, but it’s mine, and it’s real. I built it with risk, heartbreak, laughter, and a whole lot of naked truth.

So when Thanksgiving rolls around now, I give thanks for the chaos. For the detours, the do-overs, the fuckups, and the freedom. For this body that’s weathered it all, and for the community of men who refuse to hide behind conformity.

If your life doesn’t fit neatly into someone else’s expectations, good. You’re doing it right. Keep undressing the parts of you that were taught to play small. Be grateful that you’re not living on autopilot. Be grateful that you’re still curious. Not settled. Not safe. But awake.