By Mae Evans, ’27

Staff Writer

Turkeys, table settings, matching napkins, travel, desserts—the checklist of gratitude has never looked so expensive. Thanksgiving was built on simplicity, or at least that’s the myth we tell ourselves while scrolling through sales and calculating oven times. It’s supposed to be about pausing, appreciating, giving thanks—but somewhere between the grocery cart and the group photo, the holiday turned into a production. Gratitude now feels like a performance: the curated table, the perfectly browned turkey, the caption that insists “so thankful for everyone in my life.” 

We’re not giving thanks—we’re staging it. 

The irony is that Thanksgiving preaches humility while thriving on excess. We consume until we’re full, then talk about how grateful we are. We buy our way into meaning because it’s easier than sitting in silence and feeling it. It’s easier to measure love in portion sizes than in presence. For a holiday about appreciation, it depends heavily on abundance. Gratitude becomes something you perform with purchases—a kind of moral receipt that says, I’ve done enough to feel thankful. 

But when the table is cleared, the receipts crumpled, and the leftovers cooled in the fridge, what’s left that actually matters? Maybe the point isn’t to strip the holiday down, but to notice what would remain if we did. Without the desserts, matching napkins, or endless refills, could we still recognize the feeling we were trying to buy? Every year, we’re asked, “What are you thankful for?” Maybe the harder, more revealing question is the one we never say out loud: “What would still matter if everything else was gone?”