Thanksgiving is almost here, and my body is falling apart.

Perfect timing.

This year the arthritis in my neck wakes me at 3 a.m. like a landlord collecting late rent. The left knee clicks when I climb stairs. My lower back has filed an official grievance. I’m not old—not yet—but I’m definitely in the foothills of old age, and the path is steeper than I remember.

So naturally, I’m grateful.

Not in the performative, Instagram-caption way. I’m grateful the way a sailor is grateful for the storm that teaches him the limits of his boat.

Pain is an honest teacher. Old age is its teaching assistant. And together they keep handing me the same Taoist pop quiz:

Can you say thank you to what hurts?

The First Lesson: Thanks Is Not Approval

“When people see some things as beautiful,
other things become ugly.
When people see some things as good,
other things become bad.”
— Tao Te Ching, Chapter 2

Thanksgiving (real thanksgiving) is not about pretending pain is pleasant. It’s about seeing the whole circle.

I don’t love the ache in my wrists, but I love that it reminds me I still have wrists. I don’t love the slowness of my recovery, but I love that I can still recover. Pain draws the boundary where “me” ends and “world” begins. That line is sacred. Without it, I’d forget I’m alive.

The Tao doesn’t ask me to enjoy the bitter herbs. It asks me to swallow them and notice I’m still here to taste.

The Second Lesson: Pain Is the Mountain’s Way of Speaking

Old age is not a decline; it’s a translation.

Every new limitation is the mountain saying, “You no longer climb me the way you did at twenty. Good. Now learn a different path.”

I used to run trails. Now I walk them. Same trail, different gait. Same mountain, different conversation.

“The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail.”
— Tao Te Ching, Chapter 76

Stiffness is coming. I feel it settling in like winter. The practice now is to stay curious about softness—how to move, how to sit, how to sleep—without waging war against the inevitable.

Pain is the mountain’s dialect. Gratitude is learning to speak it.

The Third Lesson: The Feast Is Already Happening

Thanksgiving dinner will hurt. I’ll sit too long. Someone will ask me to carve the turkey (a task now performed with the solemnity of a bomb tech defusing a device made of tendons). My back will protest. My hands will tremble slightly.

And I will strive to be absurdly, ridiculously thankful.

Because the table will be loud with people I love. Because the food will be too much. Because the dog will steal a roll and no one will care. Because pain means I’m still in the story.

The Tao is not somewhere else. It’s in the creaking chair, the overcooked stuffing, the second glass of wine I probably shouldn’t have, the quiet moment when everyone is chewing and no one needs to speak.

Closing the Circle

This year I won’t stand up and list things I’m grateful for. I’ll just sit—slowly, carefully—and let the ache in my joints do the talking.

Thank you, body, for carrying me this far.
Thank you, pain, for keeping the invoice current.
Thank you, old age, for walking beside me instead of waiting at the end.

The mountain is patient.
So am I, finally.

Happy Thanksgiving.
May your plate be full, your heart soft, and your hurts honest.