Finding Each Other This Thanksgiving

My dad always called dogs angels on Earth.

Liam and Me

I thought about that recently when I was at a protest with my dog Liam and a man approached with anger in his eyes and hard words ready. He was furious about politics, about everything that divides us.

I stood there watching the traffic, and without even expecting an answer, I said to the air between us: “Do you like dogs?”

The confusion on his face was exactly what I was hoping for—that moment when someone who’s been ready for a fight suddenly doesn’t know what war we’re fighting.

He looked at Liam. Liam looked back. They made soft eye contact.

“I’ve had a few,” he said, not meeting my eyes. And in those four words I heard everything he wasn’t saying—the love that lived there, the loss that lived there, the part of him that knew what it meant to share a mutual appreciation.

For just a moment, a dog made us both more human to each other.

That’s what I’m thinking about this Thanksgiving.

The Tide Is Turning

I’m grateful that the tide is turning.

I’m grateful for everyone who knocked doors in Virginia and New Jersey and New York City, who stayed up late on organizing calls, who donated what they could, who showed up even when it was hard. The election results from November 5 weren’t just wins—they were proof that showing up matters.

I’m grateful for the survivors who spoke truth about Epstein even when powerful people tried to silence them. For the 218 members of Congress who signed a discharge petition to force accountability. For everyone who refused to let that story be buried.

I’m grateful for the lawyers working pro bono in courtrooms across America, filing the cases that are winning, that are protecting people, that are saying “this is illegal” when judges—even Trump-appointed judges—agree.

I’m grateful for the organizers building networks in their communities. For the teenagers watching their neighborhoods. For the person on Reddit who said “let’s organize 50 states” and made it happen. For every single person who decided that despair wasn’t an option.

The tide is turning because people are showing up. This is all in my heart this Thanksgiving.

But There Are Empty Chairs

And I’m also holding in my heart the families sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with an empty chair.

The families torn apart by deportations that shouldn’t have happened. The parents whose children were taken from them. The children whose parents were taken from them. The families broken by policies designed to be cruel.

I’m thinking about the federal workers who were fired for doing their jobs. The families who can’t afford healthcare because subsidies expired. The people who are scared and hurting because cruelty has been made into policy.

And I’m thinking about the families with little on the table this year. The ones struggling because of inflation, tariffs that raised prices on everything, job losses that weren’t their fault. The families choosing between heating and eating. The ones who used to set a full table and this year are doing the math on every dish.

There are empty chairs at Thanksgiving tables this year that should be filled. And tables that should be fuller. And before we talk about finding common ground or connection, we need to name that. We need to hold space for that grief. We need to remember that politics isn’t abstract—it’s people’s lives.

Some families are missing someone they love because of choices made in Washington. Some families are missing meals they could afford last year. That’s real. That’s painful. And we don’t forget it even as we try to find our way through.

Finding the Moment

Here’s what I’m also thinking about: A lot of us are going to sit down at Thanksgiving tables with people who have made it really hard to connect lately.

Maybe it’s a family member who voted differently. Maybe it’s someone who believes things you find impossible to understand. Maybe it’s someone who said things that hurt. Maybe you’re the one who said things that hurt.

And maybe—just maybe—there’s a way through.

Not by pretending everything is fine. Not by avoiding the hard stuff forever. Not by sacrificing our values or staying quiet about injustice.

But by finding one moment of shared humanity. Like dogs. Or sweet potato pie versus pumpkin pie. Or a memory of Grandma. Or a shared love of terrible movies or good coffee or the way autumn light looks through kitchen windows.

Just one moment where you remember you’re both human.

My Invitation to Myself (and You, If You Want)

This Thanksgiving, I’m going to try something. I’m going to look for one point of connection with everyone I engage with—especially the people who have been hardest to talk to.

Not as a strategy. Not to change their mind. Not to prove I’m right.

Just as a human being connecting with another human being.

Because I think about that man on the corner a lot. I think about how his rage burned itself out when he talked about dogs he’d loved. I think about how much we both knew about love and loss in those four words: “I’ve had a few.”

We didn’t solve anything that day. We didn’t suddenly agree about politics. He walked away and probably went right back to being angry about whatever Fox News was telling him to be angry about.

But for just a moment, we saw each other. Really saw each other. As people who have both loved dogs. As people who have both experienced loss. As people.

And maybe that’s enough for right now.

Because here’s the truth: Authoritarianism wins when we can’t talk to each other anymore. When families splinter completely. When communities fracture beyond repair.

Sustaining resistance requires sustaining our humanity, and sustaining our humanity sometimes means finding one dog-shaped moment of connection. Every time we do—without compromising our values, without staying silent about injustice—we’re proving that democracy’s promise of unity across difference is still possible.

That’s not weakness. That’s practicing the culture we’re defending.

Holding Both

This means looking for mutual gratitude. Shared humanity. Common ground.

Not instead of remembering what’s broken. Not instead of those empty chairs. Not forgetting the fights we’re still in.

But alongside all of it. Because we can hold grief and gratitude at the same time. We can remember what’s been lost and still find moments of connection. We can keep fighting and still ask someone if they like dogs.

That’s not weakness. That’s how we stay human through this.

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Happy Thanksgiving. 🦃

May you find your moment.

💙

My backyard guest this morning - Turkey underground intel is solid. Vegetarian safe house located.

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