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I used to think Thanksgiving was a soft holiday. Too many Hallmark commercials, too many perfect families smiling around perfect tables. But this year hit different. I’ve been through enough shit to appreciate the simple things—peace, stability, a job that doesn’t drain my soul, mornings where I wake up and actually feel like myself. There’s something powerful about slowing down. Not stopping, just pausing. Long enough to look around and say, Damn… I made it.

I thought about that this week, sitting in my kitchen with una taza de café, watching the steam rise like it was trying to take a message to the sky. Gratitude isn’t always loud. Sometimes it feels like stepping into a room you once feared and realizing it no longer has any power over you. Funny how certain places stick with you, which reminds me of this house, one I’ve written about for years. It pops into my mind more often than I’d like to admit; pink walls, peeling paint, and a silence that feels personal.

The kind of silence that knows your name.

It showed up again in my thoughts as I was thinking about gratitude. Isn’t that strange? Thanksgiving… and that place. A house tied to a past that doesn’t let go easily. A house that appeared in my stories, the way certain memories show up in dreams; uninvited but familiar. I won’t get into it today. It’s Thanksgiving, after all. But I’ll say this: some houses don’t disappear just because you moved on. Some places keep breathing in the background of your life, waiting for the right moment to be seen again.

Today, though, I’m choosing the good stuff. Family. Friends. Work. Peace I fought for. Discipline I earned. And the quiet confidence that I’m building something solid—día por día. But even as I give thanks, I can feel that old house watching from the corner of my memory.

Waiting.

Listening.

Almost… patient.

Happy Thanksgiving, mis amigos. Eat well, rest well… And if something from your past knocks on the door tonight, make sure you’re the one who answers.

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