Last Thanksgiving looked nothing like this one.
One year ago, I spent most of the day curled up on my in-laws’ couch, exhausted, weak, and weighing only 109 pounds. Family laughter filled the house, the smell of turkey drifted through the air, and yet, I slept through nearly all of it. My body was failing, and I didn’t know why. I just knew something wasn’t right.
It all started months earlier, in August 2024, when I began experiencing strange symptoms. At first, I blamed hormones. Maybe premenopause? Maybe stress? I was constantly overheating, constantly hungry, constantly losing weight. I remember joking at the beginning that losing weight without trying felt like a dream, but that humor faded quickly. Soon, even the simplest movement left me winded. I could barely lift my arms. Squatting down or climbing stairs took everything out of me.
At the time, I was teaching in a behavioral unit, where lifting and supporting students was part of my daily job. When I could no longer do that safely, I finally went to the doctor, desperate for answers. Bloodwork revealed what I never saw coming: autoimmune hyperthyroidism (a.k.a. Graves Disease). My immune system was attacking my thyroid, causing it to throw off my hormone levels to the point where everything inside me was malfunctioning. My metabolism. My strength. My temperature regulation. Even my sleep.
And then it started affecting my eyes. The light sensitivity worsened, my eyes remained red and inflamed, and driving became dangerous. For two and a half months, I lost the independence of simply getting behind the wheel.
Eventually, with my health declining rapidly, I made one of the hardest decisions of my life: I resigned from teaching. I stepped away from the career I loved so I could fight for my health. To make it harder, the endocrinologist couldn’t see me for two months. Two long months of waiting, wondering, praying, and fighting through days where I honestly wasn’t sure how I would make it. I remember telling my husband and close friends that I was ready to succumb to the disease because I was too tired to fight.
But God carried me — through family, through friends, through every helping hand and late-night prayer whispered on my behalf, encouraging me to keep going. A close friend who had also gone through her own Grave’s journey promised me that I would come through this stronger. Whenever I called her crying, she would sing to me: “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone….” She made me promise that once I came through, that I would call her and sing it back to her. Through tears and laughter, I made that promise.
Finally on December 8, I finally started treatment. High-dose medication, slow adjustments, and a warning: This will take time. And it did. For the first 4 days after starting the medication, all I could do was sleep. I was so depressed and cried so much during that time; I was tempted to stop the medication altogether because I didn’t think it was helping. But thanks to my support system, my village, still I kept going.
I am so glad I did. 10 days later on December 18, I remember waking up and feeling as if a fog had been lifted. I could feel myself returning. Strength found its way back into my bones. I started to feel alive again. The first thing I did was call my friend and sing to her: “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone!” through a different kind of tears and laughter.
Fast forward to today: Thanksgiving Day 2025.
I’ve lived with Graves for over a year now. I’m stable on a lower dose of medication. I get monthly bloodwork. I monitor my body closely. Graves is something I will live with forever — but it no longer controls me.
And the greatest blessing of all? I’m teaching again. Not the same position; something new, something gentle, something God-timed and God-gifted. This summer, I took a leap of faith I never thought I’d have the courage to take, and I returned to the classroom as a preschool teacher. My students have become light in my life, constant joy, and the little heartbeat of each day. They remind me that God restores, rebuilds, and renews — often through tiny humans with sticky hands and big laughs.
So This Thanksgiving, I’m Thankful. Deeply, Fiercely, Fully. Not for perfection. Not for comfort. But for restoration. For strength I thought I lost. For breath in my lungs and energy in my body. For doctors who care and friends who carried me when I couldn’t carry myself. For every prayer, every check-in, every hug, every whispered “You’ve got this.”
Most of all, I’m thankful that God never left me, not even in the darkest months. A year ago, I was fighting just to function. This year, I’m teaching, laughing, living, and giving thanks around the table instead of sleeping through it. This Thanksgiving is more than a holiday, it is a marker of survival, of growth, of grace. I’m choosing joy. I’m choosing faith. I’m choosing to keep moving forward, one day at a time.
Do I worry that my Graves could flare up at any moment? Yes. But I also know that God is a God who heals. He is good and He is faithful. He promises that He will never give us more than we can handle as long as we continue to lean on Him. He is our strength and comfort, and as long as I have breath in my body, I will continue to trust Him. Every day I am able to wake up is another day to praise Him and give Him all the glory.
And for that, I am thankful.
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