It’s the weekend for giving thanks, so of course I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude. It’s almost impossible to get through this time of year without pausing to appreciate the people we love and the things that give our lives meaning.
And like many of you, I’ve done that.
I’ve named the obvious blessings.
But this weekend, I realized my gratitude has stretched wider. It’s pointing me toward a kind of humanity that can’t be overlooked.
Because the truth is, the world feels heavy right now.
Divided.
Loud in the worst ways.
The bullies, the haters, the people who profit from cruelty seem to grab the microphone. Fear is amplified, and compassion feels drowned out—sometimes even punished.
And yet, every single day, there are people doing the quiet, steady work of holding humanity together.
People standing up.
People intervening.
People whispering encouragement.
People raising their voices when silence would be easier.
People protecting strangers.
People feeding the hungry—not from excess, but from sacrifice.
People showing up in the dark corners the headlines don’t bother to reach.
Elizabeth Lesser calls these people the “first first responders.” And she’s right. These are the people who sense harm, injustice, or vulnerability immediately—and respond long before institutions ever do. They’re the extraordinary ordinary who patch the emotional wound while it’s still bleeding.
They don’t wait for permission.
They don’t wait for a title.
They don’t wait for the safer moment that never actually arrives.
They move because humanity is the compass they trust.
And it’s as if, when power and greed take more and more from those who already have too little, it’s everyday people—the ones without privilege or platform—who step in and say, Absolutely not. Not on my watch.
When food programs are gutted, everyday people fill the gap.
When leaders dehumanize entire groups, everyday people refuse to let cruelty be normalized.
When someone is being targeted, everyday people step between harm and another human being.
These are the people I’m most grateful for this year.
Not because fear doesn’t hit them—it does.
But because they act anyway.
Their courage is grounded in decency and in something deeply, unmistakably human.
Why This Year Feels Different
This clarity isn’t random. It’s surfacing now because I’m finally paying attention to what’s been building in me for months.
This has been a year with its own sharp edges.
Losing my dad two years ago—and the holidays make it feel like yesterday.
Losing my sister to cancer this year.
Supporting my husband and my mother as they fight their own cancer battles.
And in the middle of loss, we’ve welcomed a new baby. Another is on the way.
Joy and grief have been showing up together—loud, messy, and completely uninterested in taking turns. And when life puts you in that kind of emotional collision, you start to see clearly who’s actually holding things together.
Not the loud ones.
Not the self-appointed experts.
Not the ones exploiting fear.
But the everyday humans who keep choosing compassion.
The ones gathering the pieces.
The ones protecting what’s still good.
The ones who act as the “first first responders” in every sense—emotionally, relationally, communally.
They’re the people who keep us steady when life tilts.
They remind us what we’re capable of at our best.
They prove that kindness isn’t fragile—it’s resilient.
The People Who Keep Decency Alive
I’m grateful for:
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The woman who steps between a stranger and a threat.
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The man who quietly pays for the groceries of the family ahead of him.
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The teacher who protects the child who always seems to be the target.
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The neighbor who delivers meals simply because someone needs them.
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The caregiver who insists on dignity even when dementia tries to erase it.
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The young adults who march in the cold for someone else’s rights.
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The volunteers who pack boxes, fill fridges, organize rides, and support families in ways no camera will ever capture.
These acts aren’t small. They are the emotional infrastructure of our society—built and maintained by people who aren’t seeking credit or applause. They’re just doing what’s right.
This Thanksgiving
Yes, I’m grateful for the people I love.
The ones who held me up in the most challenging moments.
The ones who showed up at oncology appointments.
The ones who celebrated our granddaughter.
The ones who stood with us at funerals.
The ones who held the line for me when I couldn’t hold it myself.
But I’m also profoundly grateful for the everyday protectors.
The quiet fighters.
The first first responders.
The people who keep choosing empathy in a world pushing toward indifference.
The ones who step between harm and humanity again and again.
They’re the reason hope keeps finding its way back to me.
Because they’re the ones who will stand up for the people I love—even if I never know their names. These strangers are out there shaping a better world for my children, my grandchildren, and the people I’ll one day leave behind.
And that matters to me more than it ever has.
I’m grateful for them.
They deserve to be named in our gratitude.
And I am grateful for each of you.
May we all aspire to be the kind of people who make the world safer, kinder, and more human.
