The Thanksgiving Virtue We’re Forgetting

Thanksgiving prompts us to count our blessings–and many of us know the research showing that gratitude practices can lift our mood and improve our health. All of that is good. But if we’re being honest, gratitude may not be the first thing on our minds this year.

More likely, we’re thinking about how to survive the dinner table. 

We are rehearsing ways into a conversation, or ways out. Or maybe we’re ignoring what may come and going in blind. Some of us have already had the thought: I love them, but I cannot have this conversation again. It's tempting to think that a facade of pleasantries or hiding in the kitchen will get us through the holiday. 

Instead of psyching ourselves up for–or out of– these encounters, I suggest we approach Thanksgiving with a different goal in mind: hospitality.

Not in the Instagram sense of the perfect table and perfectly plump pumpkin pie. And not the gritted-teeth version of hosting where the day becomes an endurance test. I mean hospitality as a way of seeing—welcoming people as if they belong, creating ease rather than edge, making room for the whole person in front of us.

You don’t need to be the one roasting the turkey to practice it.

You may be baking, carrying takeout to a hospital room, or finding your place at a crowded table. But hospitality appears in quieter, more personal ways. It begins by noticing the other first: how we seat people, how we introduce them, how we draw in the guest who feels out of place or the cousin who traveled across the country and doesn’t quite know where to stand.

Hospitality is regard, the habit of making room for the person in front of you. You don’t need a turkey for that.  You need attention, a willingness to be surprised, and the humility to know we don’t know the whole story. And it’s not a soft ideal. It’s countercultural. It’s how families heal, how friendships deepen and strangers become teachers. 

This year, hospitality will matter most in the moments we fear:
When the political remark lands.
When the old debate begins to stir.
When your first reaction is: Please, let’s not go there again.

That’s when our own deeper work begins—when our internal question shifts from How do I escape this? to How can I welcome this person?

If someone says something that grates, try:
“Help me understand why you feel that way.”

If they share their story, acknowledge it honestly:
“I hear you. I can appreciate why you think that.”

And if you feel the need to offer a different view, ask first:
“Would you be open to hearing another perspective?”

If the answer is no, let it go. Thanksgiving is not the day to win the argument. It is an opportunity to recognize the person.

The deepest hunger at any Thanksgiving table is not for food but for the simple dignity of being welcomed as we are. We can choose to enter this Thanksgiving with that aim–to meet others with the genuine regard we hope to receive.

A friend of mine, a nurse, once found herself in a workplace thick with gossip. She chose to counter it. She listed each colleague on her shift and wrote down their strengths with specific anecdotes to match. That list became her shield against negativity. It helped her draw out the best in them and changed how they responded to her in turn.

The power of hospitality lies in our agency, our choice to show up differently. It is the wisdom and moral freedom to stay curious, patient, and generous even when the conversation gets complicated.

And in its own way, hospitality is deeply American. Our experiment in ordered liberty depends upon people of different backgrounds, beliefs, and traditions learning how to live together without retreating or attacking. Thanksgiving is a chance to practice that in miniature.

So this year, instead of resisting that difference, embrace it. 

As we prepare the sweet potatoes and bake our favorite pies, let’s also prepare to show up not with a rehearsed rebuttal, but with a desire to welcome the persons in front of us. Ask your cousin what she’s been learning in her new job. Ask your uncle what he’s reading. Ask the brother-in-law you disagree with about what he hopes for this coming year. 

Seek their story. Discover something about them worth appreciating.

When we take an interest in someone, especially someone difficult, we discover the heart of Thanksgiving: gratitude that comes from recognizing the gift of the person before us. 

Happy Thanksgiving!  

Karen E. Bohlin is Director of Wisdom at Work: Revitalizing School Leadership at the Abigail Adams Institute.

For more resources on bridging divides, see The Courageous Dialogue Toolkit: Practical Wisdom for School Leaders–(and All Leaders) coauthored by Karen Bohlin and Barbara Whitlock. 

What If Wisdom, Not Willpower, Is the Answer?

By late October, even the most dedicated teachers feel the shift: fatigue settles in, light fades, and our sense of meaning begins to blur. But what if true resilience doesn’t come from willpower at all, but from wisdom, the quiet act of recalibration?

The October Dip Is Real

The bright chatter of September has quieted, and the energy in the hallways wanes. Hoodies are up. Heads are down. The students who bounded into class a month ago now slide into their seats, eyes a little weary. The light outside has faded, and so, it seems, has theirs.

It’s not just students who feel it; parents and teachers do too. The shorter days test everyone’s patience; we grow weary with them—and sometimes at them—wondering when their spark will return.

There’s a psychology to the school year. The promise of new beginnings—clean notebooks, new shoes, a burst of optimism—gives way to fatigue. Routines have set in; the novelty has worn off. The romance is over. The temptation is to push harder, demand more. But wisdom requires something different: to pause, read the room, read ourselves, and recalibrate.

The Seasonal Rhythm of Learning (and Living)

In New England, where I’m from, this moment arrives just before the first freeze. Between now and December 21, the light recedes into shorter days. We haven’t turned the clocks back yet, but there’s a subtle malaise—physical, mental, emotional. We feel it in our bones. So do our students.

It’s not a failure. It’s a rhythm and a predictable one. After three decades of teaching, I haven’t met an educator who hasn’t offered some knowing account of what this feels like. And yet, we’re always a little caught off guard. What’s wrong with me? we wonder. And what’s happening to my students or my kids at home? Their motivation is flagging.

Recognizing this rhythm and responding to it with gentleness rather than indignation is one of the small but vital arts of teaching and leading. It’s what keeps a community moving forward with energy and hope, instead of fatigue and blame.

What Recalibration Looks Like

For teachers and school leaders, recalibration begins with putting your own oxygen mask on first: getting real sleep, moving your body, and taking delight in the little things. It means bringing a touch of levity or joy—playing music as students walk in, lightening up, laughing at ourselves.

The goal isn’t to let things slide, but to disrupt the default that creeping sense of drudgery or emerging Eeyore. We can’t power through indefinitely. We can, however, recalibrate to rekindle joy and keep our purpose in sight.

Recalibration as Mind–Body–Spirit Reset

When I’m stressed, my neck and shoulders tighten; I get a low, dull headache. I stop hearing what others are really saying. You probably have your own signals: shallow breaths, restless scrolling, the third cup of coffee before 10 a.m. We can’t teach or lead wisely when our bodies are in overdrive.

Recent research confirms what educators feel by October: when stress persists, we risk losing touch with purpose. A 2023 systematic review in Frontiers in Psychology examined 44 studies involving more than 76,000 teachers and found that lower well-being was consistently linked to emotional exhaustion, detachment, and weakened student–teacher relationships. Global data from the Global Flourishing Study—as reported in the New York Times—reveal a broader pattern: meaning and purpose are declining, especially among younger cohorts. 

Both studies underscore that flourishing grows from meaning and connection. The danger isn’t only fatigue—it’s forgetting why we began in the first place.  

Recalibration is the deliberate act of pausing when we notice we’re running on empty and choosing a small, restorative action, one that grounds us in the present and helps us turn again toward our true north. It isn’t indulgence; it’s restoration. Without it, our attention narrows and we miss what’s meaningful right in front of us. Before we can act wisely, we need that reset, the pause that grounds us. From this footing, meaning becomes visible again. Recalibration helps us regain our bearings so we can return to leading, teaching, and living with renewed purpose.

Neuroscience supports this: chronic stress narrows our attention and empathy, while recalibration restores them, literally shifting our physiology to make space for connection, meaning, and care. In one 2023 experimental study with university students, even a five-minute rest break before a demanding task improved attention and problem-solving, evidence that short pauses can refresh focus and foster learning.

Recalibration helps us notice what’s happening in our nervous system and make a small shift—one that brings us back to reality and to the people beside us, at home and at work. It might be a walk around the block, a playlist for our commute, a breath before the next class, or a quick laugh with a colleague. These small resets aren’t luxuries; they’re part of the work—your own recalibration toolbox, built from the ordinary practices that restore you.

How Recalibration Restores Connection

Maybe wisdom, at this point in the year, looks less like pressing harder and more like pacing ourselves. Less about control, more about noticing. Recalibration helps us regain perspective—to see that we, too, are learners, still growing alongside the students we serve.

What drew you into education in the first place? Perhaps your belief that young people can flourish or the quiet joy of watching a student finally find their voice in class discussion. These are the things that keep us here. And they’re the same things that can ground us now.

When we recalibrate, when we slow down enough to recover our own sense of direction, we help others do the same. Our steadiness grounds them, reminding students, colleagues, and even our own children that joy is still possible—that the light is still there, even when it’s dim.

The Practical Wisdom of Pausing

Every profession has its seasonal ups and downs. For educators, being mindful of the late-October dip is half the battle. We can’t control the length of days or the length of our to-do lists. But we can choose how we show up and how we respond.

Real resilience doesn’t come from willpower. It comes from wisdom: the quiet strength to pause, recalibrate, and return to what matters.

Karen E. Bohlin is Director of Wisdom at Work: Revitalizing School Leadership at the Abigail Adams Institute.

Wisdom at Work: Revitalizing School Leadership was made possible through the support of Grant 63617 from the John Templeton Foundation. The opinions expressed in this project are those of the Practical Wisdom Project and do not necessarily reflect the views of the John Templeton Foundation.