Everyday Thanks

Gratitude lives in ordinary moments, if we pause to see them

By Heather Shoning

Gratitude is a slippery thing. It shows up in moments so small you could miss them if you’re not paying attention: the way sunlight cuts through the kitchen window while you make coffee, the neighbor who drags your recycling bin back up the driveway, the crunch of leaves underfoot when you finally step away from your desk. These aren’t the headline moments. They’re quiet, unassuming—and yet, they’re the ones that stick.

I’ve been keeping a gratitude journal for nearly ten years now. I wish I could say I never miss a day, but life happens. Sometimes I’m traveling. Sometimes deadlines pile up. Sometimes I just don’t get to it. But for the most part, it’s part of my daily rhythm: sit down, open the notebook, write down what I’m thankful for. OK, well, coffee does come first.

In all seriousness, it sounds simple, but here’s the truth—I don’t always get it right. Some days, I find myself journaling about work stress, about my kids, about life in general. I’ll catch myself mid-sentence and sometimes realize I’m basically complaining on paper. That’s when I have to stop and shift the narrative back to gratitude. It’s not a perfect process, but that’s the point. Gratitude, like yoga, is a practice. You keep showing up, making small adjustments, stretching into new spaces. Some days the balance comes easily. Other days you wobble.

The beauty is in returning. Gratitude doesn’t require perfection. It requires presence.

And presence is hard to hold onto in the middle of a busy life. Like everyone else, I rush. I get lost in to-do lists, deadlines, errands, schedules. Gratitude has become my brake pedal. It slows me down just enough to notice what’s happening right now instead of sprinting past it. It reminds me to stop looking for “big” reasons to feel thankful and to recognize the ordinary ones.

Those ordinary ones matter. I’m thankful for the smell of pine trees on a crisp morning walk, for the way the Flatirons glow after the first snow, for conversations around the dinner table that zigzag and overlap until laughter drowns everything out. I’m thankful for the quiet that settles in as the world comes to halt the moment the first flakes fly.

But I’m just as grateful for the smaller, less photogenic things: a text from a friend when I need it most, the barista who remembers my order before I say it, the relief of crossing one more thing off the list. Gratitude doesn’t erase the hard parts of life, but it sharpens the contrast. It helps me see the bright edges that might otherwise get lost.

If there’s anything ten years of journaling has taught me, it’s that gratitude is not seasonal. Yes, it feels easy in autumn, when the whole world seems dressed in gold and the holidays nudge us toward reflection. But gratitude doesn’t belong to one month, one tradition or even one religion. It belongs to every. single. day. It’s a way of training myself to see what’s already here: the small moments, the imperfect days, the simple fact of being alive and paying attention.

I’m still not perfect at it—probably never will be. Some mornings, my journal entries still read more like lists of to-dos than thanks. Some mornings, I forget altogether. But the practice itself reminds me: Gratitude isn’t about achieving anything. It’s about returning, again and again, to what matters. And for me, that return has been its own gift.