This weekend, I drove up to Barrie to help my daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law host Thanksgiving dinner. It was my first long-distance drive since surgery — a milestone I wasn’t sure I was ready for, but one I needed to face. Driving a standard Jeep after a hip replacement isn’t exactly a recipe for comfort, but the moment I turned the key, I felt a quiet strength stir inside me. A sense of reclaiming something that once felt lost — the freedom to move, to explore, to show up for the people I love.
I never take the highway. It may shave time off the trip, but it also steals the view. The backroads are where the stories live — winding through small towns already dressed for Thanksgiving and Halloween, past cornfields brushed with amber light, and forests set ablaze in that fleeting autumn fire that only October brings. There’s something sacred about the slower route. When you choose it, it’s like the world opens up in gratitude, whispering, thank you for noticing me.
The Trans Canada Rail Trail runs parallel to those roads, and as I drove, I couldn’t help but think of my bike ride along it just less than five months ago — 600 kilometres on a busted hip, right before surgery. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what that ride meant; everything around me was changing too fast. But as I followed the same route in my Jeep, healed and whole again, I finally had space to reflect.
I laughed. I cried. I karaokied my way up and back — a one-woman concert of gratitude, resilience, and release. With every kilometre, I thought about how far I’ve come, and that in the past year alone, I’ve accomplished things I never dreamed possible — the bike ride on a broken hip, a complete hip replacement, the completion of a 700-page novel, and perhaps most importantly, an entirely new perspective on living. I’ll be turning 50 soon, and instead of feeling the weight of it, I feel the lightness of becoming someone new — someone stronger, freer, more at peace with where I am.
That drive wasn’t just a trip to help prepare a Thanksgiving feast; it was a quiet pilgrimage. A reminder that gratitude isn’t just about what’s on the table, but what’s within us — the courage, the healing, the moments that bring us back to ourselves. Because when you stop trying to control every turn, when you trust the open road to guide you where you’re meant to go, you start to feel the universe moving with you — steady, patient, and full of grace.
Somewhere between the laughter and the tears, I sent a thought out into the world: I hope everyone, at least once in their life, feels this kind of alignment. That moment when the noise quiets, the light shifts, and you realise — you’ve made it through. You’re still here. You’re still singing. And the universe, in its own quiet way, is singing right back.
May this season remind us that gratitude is not reserved for perfect days,
but for the quiet ones — the ones that heal us in ways we don’t always see.
May your home be filled with warmth, your table with abundance,
and your heart with peace that lingers long after the candles fade.
May you find beauty in the detours, grace in the waiting,
and joy in simply being here — alive, present, and part of this ever-turning, beautiful world.
Happy Thanksgiving. 🍂