Three Things

I have never been an ungrateful person. Even in the hardest seasons of my life, I could see beauty and name what was good. Gratitude was not foreign to me. But there is a difference between being a grateful person and being able to feel gratitude when your world has been torn open.

After loss layered on loss-my brothers, my friend, my marriage dissolving in the middle of it all, I wasn’t cynical or hardened. I was flooded. Grief alters the nervous system. It narrows perception and heightens vigilance. The mind scans for what else might fall apart, replays what cannot be changed, and braces for further impact. In that state, gratitude does not disappear; it simply gets drowned out by the intensity of what is happening.

What steadied me was not a shift in perspective but a practice. Each day, I wrote down three things for which I felt genuine gratitude. They were not profound insights or moral lessons. They were specific, sensory moments I could honestly acknowledge: a bluebird flashing across the fence line so vividly it startled me; the warmth of coffee in my hands when my chest felt hollow; an unexpected hug that did not require explanation or composure.

At first the practice felt almost mechanical. Yet over time I began to notice a subtle change. When we intentionally look for moments of steadiness, beauty, or warmth, we are not denying pain; we are widening the field of attention. Neuroscience has demonstrated that repeated attention strengthens neural pathways. What we consistently notice becomes easier for the brain to register. By writing down three concrete experiences each day, I was gently training my mind to perceive more than threat. I was telling my nervous system, with care rather than force, that alongside grief there were still moments of safety and aliveness.

I remember one particular day when a friend suggested we take a drive. There was no therapeutic agenda. She did not ask me to process or make meaning. She simply said, “Let’s get in the car.” We drove with the windows cracked and the music low. Watching the road move steadily beneath us offered a quiet reassurance that the world was still functioning in its ordinary way. We stopped at a thrift store and wandered the aisles, running our hands over fabrics, laughing at strange objects that had once belonged to other lives. Later we went to a small, beautiful food store and bought things we did not strictly need: good cheese, fresh bread, something sweet and sat down for lunch like ordinary people.

I was not ordinary that day. I was torn open. Yet for a few hours I practiced inhabiting the shape of a normal afternoon. My gratitude list that evening was simple: the hum of tires on pavement, the absurd delight of finding a ridiculous sweater, the taste of fresh bread. The practice did not erase my grief. It braided alongside it.

Over time, writing down three things became less about discipline and more about receptivity. It was a way of welcoming what was still being given to me, even as so much had been taken. Gratitude at this scale is not a demand for positivity; it is an act of attention. To notice and record these small gifts is to allow them to land fully, to let the body register warmth, color, touch, and connection. In doing so, we reshape the interior landscape not by force but by love.

The practice remains simple. Three things. Not to convince myself that everything is fine, and not to justify suffering, but to remain in relationship with the life that continues to unfold. In the midst of loss, it became a lifeline, a quiet way of reminding my brain and heart that even here, even now, the mystery is still arriving…