Thankful Thursday: Gratitude Without Pretending

What an imperfect day taught me about hardship, connection, receiving help, and allowing kindness to circulate

Earlier this week, I heard on Joy FM that participating St. Louis–area Chick-fil-A restaurants were giving away free sandwiches for “Thankful Thursday.”

I mentioned it to my friend Jamie, who I had not seen in nearly two months, and she immediately suggested that we meet for sandwiches and catch up.

We are both navigating chronic autistic burnout and the financial strain that can accompany having far less capacity to work than the world expects.

A free meal was therefore not insignificant; it made spending time together more accessible without requiring either of us to spend money we could not comfortably spare.

The sandwich was not the main gift of the afternoon.

What began as a free lunch became two restorative hours with someone who understood experiences I rarely have to explain to her.

The promotion gave us a reason to meet, but the greater gift was safe companionship—the kind of connection that can return energy rather than consume it.

The rest of my day unfolded similarly: inconvenient in some places, unexpectedly generous in others, and never easily categorized as either “good” or “bad.”

It included financial anxiety, frustrating errands, an inaccessible checkout experience, and purchases I technically couldn't afford if it wasn't for credit cards.

It also brought unexpected work, cheaper gas, a familiar face, help from a stranger, and an opportunity to share what I had with someone else.

Nothing about the day solved the larger problems in my life.

I am still experiencing chronic autistic burnout.

My income and resources remain painfully limited, and the cost of simply existing continues to rise.

A few fortunate moments do not make those realities disappear.

But hardship was not the only thing present.

Perhaps that is the truest meaning of gratitude: not forcing ourselves to call everything good, but remaining able to recognize the goodness that meets us within an imperfect reality.

Thankfulness is not pretending everything is fine; it is allowing moments of care, relief, connection, and generosity to matter—even when they are not enough to fix everything.

Something Can Help Without Being Enough

My day began earlier than I had anticipated when the family I occasionally help contacted me at the last minute and asked whether I could work for a couple of hours.

The job was not especially close, and a few hours of work would not bring in much money.

Last-minute changes can also be particularly difficult while experiencing chronic autistic burnout; my energy is already severely limited, and unexpected demands require my mind and body to reorganize a day they had prepared to navigate differently.

Still, I was grateful for the opportunity.

When income is scarce and the price of nearly everything continues to rise, even a small amount of unexpected money matters.

It can help pay for gasoline, food, medication, a necessary bill, or some other basic expense that does not stop existing simply because disability has reduced someone’s capacity to earn.

Yet gratitude for those hours does not mean they solved my financial situation.

At my current rate of income and expenses, I know I will run out of money unless something meaningfully changes (and run out soon); that reality remains frightening.

Appreciating a small opportunity does not require me to pretend it provides the stability, resources, or support I need.

This is one reason I resist the idea that gratitude means focusing exclusively on whatever is going well; something can be helpful without being sufficient.

A little income can ease today’s pressure without securing tomorrow.

A temporary reprieve can matter without becoming a permanent solution.

Both truths deserve space:

I was grateful to have a little work.
I am also deeply concerned that I cannot currently earn enough to survive sustainably.

Acknowledging the second truth does not cancel the first, and appreciating the first does not make the second any less urgent.

Honest gratitude has room for both relief and concern; it does not ask us to rename precarity as abundance or treat occasional help as proof that our needs have been met.

Sometimes a small provision is simply that: something that helps us take the next step, even though the road ahead remains uncertain.

A Small Moment of Breathing Room

After finishing the work, I stopped for gas.

I had checked prices online and chosen a station advertising gas for $3.29 per gallon.

That was already lower than some of the surrounding options, so I planned my stop accordingly; I've witnessed firsthand gas prices dip for a bit and then skyrocket, so I've learned to jump on the "deals."

When I arrived, however, I discovered that the actual price was $2.99.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I paid less than $20 for half a tank.

A station just down the street was charging $3.74 per gallon; had I stopped there without checking, the same essential purchase would have cost considerably more.

Finding the lower price felt like an unexpected gift tucked into an otherwise ordinary errand.

To someone with dependable income, saving a few dollars on gasoline might not seem especially meaningful.

When money is scarce, however, small differences carry greater weight.

A few dollars can determine whether another necessity remains within reach.

It can mean slightly less anxiety when checking an account balance or one less expense added to a credit card that is already carrying too much.

Financial hardship changes the scale by which relief is measured.

That does not mean people should have to celebrate barely affording necessities; no one’s hardship becomes acceptable merely because they manage to find a discount.

I should not need a fortunate gas price to make transportation feel temporarily manageable, and millions of people should not have to study every sign, app, coupon, and sale simply to stretch inadequate resources across basic survival.

Still, the relief was real.

Gratitude allowed me to recognize that moment without turning it into evidence that everything would be fine.

The price of gas did not resolve my financial insecurity, but it made that particular stop gentler.

For a few minutes, the amount on the pump rose more slowly than I had expected.

Sometimes breathing room arrives as something profound; sometimes it arrives as thirty cents less per gallon—and when life has allowed very little margin, even that small space can matter.

The Free Sandwich Was Only the Invitation

From the gas station, I went to meet my friend for our free sandwiches.

We had not seen each other in nearly two months, but that absence was not caused by a lack of care.

Sometimes people can genuinely want to spend time together while lacking the energy, money, time, or executive-function capacity required to make it happen.

Chronic autistic burnout can turn even enjoyable plans into something difficult to initiate.

The “Thankful Thursday” promotion lowered one of those barriers; neither of us had to worry about whether meeting for food was financially responsible.

We simply had a place to go, something to eat, and a motivation to finally put a date on the vague promise that we should catch up soon.

Once we sat down, two hours passed remarkably quickly.

We talked about what had happened during the months apart, what we were currently navigating, and the kinds of things that are difficult to explain to people who have never experienced severe autistic burnout.

We could speak honestly without having to convince one another that our limitations were real.

Neither of us had to transform our struggles into something more palatable or pretend to be functioning better than we were.

Ordinarily, socializing can leave both of us depleted.

Even positive interactions can require listening, processing, monitoring our surroundings, regulating our bodies, finding words, and navigating the many unspoken expectations that accompany conversation.

When capacity is already scarce, those demands can come with a substantial after-cost, but this time felt different.

Rather than draining what little energy remained, the conversation seemed to return some of it; we both left feeling lighter and refreshed.

Had traffic and the rest of the day not been waiting for us, we probably could have continued talking much longer.

That experience reminded me that connection is not measured only by how much time we spend around other people.

Some forms of social contact exhaust us because they require us to perform, mask, accommodate, explain, or make ourselves smaller.

Other relationships give us room to exist as we are; safe connection can feel like exhaling.

The restaurant gave us sandwiches, and I was genuinely grateful for the free meal.

Yet the greater gift was the space it created for two people with limited resources and depleted nervous systems to find their way back to one another.

The sandwich met a physical need for an afternoon, while being understood nourished something deeper.

What I Was Looking For—and What I Found Instead

After saying goodbye to my friend, I stopped at a nearby store to look for supplies for a thank-you gift I wanted to make for my friend Sage's grandmother.

She has allowed me to stay in her home during an extraordinarily unstable period of my life.

When someone offers shelter, kindness, and room to breathe, “thank you” can feel far too small.

I do not currently have the money to purchase an elaborate gift, but I can create something personal with my own hands—something that says I recognize what her generosity has meant to me.

For me, gratitude often wants to become tangible; it becomes art, a handmade gift, a shared resource or information, or time spent helping someone.

Creating does not repay a kindness as though human care were a transaction; it simply gives appreciation somewhere to go.

Unfortunately, the store did not have the supplies I needed.

It was disappointing, especially because every additional stop consumes gasoline, time, and energy I cannot easily replace.

Errands that may appear simple from the outside can become complicated calculations during chronic autistic burnout:

How many stores can I tolerate?
How much driving can I afford?
How many decisions remain in me?
If I keep searching, will I still be able to complete everything else I need to do?

Yet the unsuccessful stop held a different surprise.

While walking through the store, I unexpectedly encountered someone from my art club.

I had only ever seen her within that particular setting, so finding a familiar face somewhere else felt strangely joyful—like two separate parts of my life briefly overlapping.

We had not arranged to meet, and neither of us had expected the other to be there; still, for a moment, an unsuccessful errand became a point of connection.

I left without the supplies I had come to find, but not entirely empty-handed.

That does not mean every disappointment conceals a hidden blessing, or that we must search frantically for a positive interpretation whenever something goes wrong.

Sometimes an unsuccessful trip is simply an unsuccessful trip, but this one happened to contain a welcome encounter I could not have planned.

Perhaps gratitude is partly the willingness to notice what a moment offered without pretending it offered what we originally needed.

I still needed the craft supplies, and I was also genuinely glad to see her; both were true.

Frustrated and Grateful Can Coexist

I tried another store for the craft supplies, but I was only able to find the glue.

While I was there, I noticed some inexpensive gloves; the seams were already beginning to separate, so I left them behind, but seeing them reminded me that I did not currently have gloves for the major cold front approaching.

Temperatures that had recently remained between the fifties and seventies were expected to drop into the twenties and thirties.

Warm gloves were no longer an optional purchase that could be postponed indefinitely.

I stopped at another store and found a pair that appeared much sturdier, but there was no price tag.

The store’s price checker was not working, and by that point in the day, I had very little capacity left for tracking down an employee, waiting for assistance, comparing alternatives, or visiting yet another location.

Chronic autistic burnout can make ordinary decisions disproportionately costly.

Sometimes the issue is not whether I intellectually know what steps I could take; it is whether my nervous system and brain still have enough resources to take them.

After working, driving, socializing, and visiting multiple stores, I had reached the point where I needed the errand to end.

I decided to take the gloves to the register and purchase them—only to find out they cost $18.

That amount might not seem extraordinary for a durable pair of gloves, but when income is severely limited and every dollar is already accounted for, an unexpected expense carries considerable weight.

I felt frustrated, especially after I had been so relieved to save money on gasoline earlier in the day; it can feel as though every small financial victory is quickly absorbed by another unavoidable need.

Still, the cold was coming; I needed to protect my hands, and the better-made gloves were less likely to fall apart immediately and require replacement.

I did not have to choose between gratitude and frustration.

I could be upset that an essential item cost more than I could comfortably afford and grateful that I found something warm before the temperature dropped.

I could wish the price had been clearly marked and recognize that limited capacity influenced my decision to proceed.

I could appreciate having gloves without pretending the purchase had not created additional financial stress.

This is where shallow messages about gratitude often fail people.

They imply that once we identify something positive, we should stop discussing everything difficult surrounding it, but thankfulness does not require emotional dishonesty.

Sometimes gratitude sounds less like “Everything worked out perfectly” and more like:

I wish this had been easier. I wish basic necessities did not require such careful calculations. I am frustrated by what this cost me—and I am relieved that my hands will be warm.

Those truths do not compete; together, they tell the whole story.

Kindness at the Checkout

My final stop was the grocery store.

I had received a gift card for that particular store from a food pantry, so I planned to use it to purchase a few things I needed.

By then, I was tired and running low on capacity.

I chose self-checkout because it is usually easier for my autism: fewer social demands, more control over the pace, and less pressure to process another person’s questions while simultaneously organizing payment and groceries.

The sign said that the machines accepted card payments; a gift card is a card, so I had no reason to assume it would be excluded.

I scanned everything and reached the payment screen, but the gift card was declined.

The card had never been used, and it should have contained its full balance.

Eventually, a staff member came over and asked me to try again; it still did not work.

When they asked what kind of card I was using, I explained that it was a gift card.

Only then was I told that gift cards had to be taken through a staffed register.

Apparently, this restriction was displayed in faded yellow lettering on a white strip of paper taped to the machine; it was so difficult to notice that I imagine many customers could overlook it—not only autistic or otherwise disabled shoppers, but anyone dealing with fatigue, poor eyesight, stress, distractions, or the normal rush of grocery shopping.

What might sound like a minor inconvenience can become much larger when someone is already depleted; I had completed the entire checkout process believing I had followed the instructions, only to discover at the end that I would need to undo/repeat it.

My groceries were waiting, the card was not working, an employee was confused, and another customer was standing behind me.

Then the woman behind me offered to pay for my few groceries.

She did not know that I was experiencing chronic autistic burnout; she did not know how limited my income had become, where the gift card came from, how much energy the day had already required, or how frightening my financial situation felt.

She simply saw someone struggling at a checkout and decided to make the situation easier.

Accepting help can feel vulnerable, particularly after a lifetime of being conditioned to believe that having needs makes me burdensome.

Part of me instinctively wants to explain, justify, or prove that I was not being careless and had not expected someone else to rescue me.

But kindness does not always require a complete history; sometimes another person sees a difficult moment and responds to the moment in front of them.

Her generosity did not repair the unclear signage, restore my depleted capacity, or solve the larger problem of insufficient income; it did, however, prevent an exhausting situation from becoming even harder.

She gave me more than the cost of a few groceries: she gave me relief, dignity, and the reminder that strangers can choose to care.

I remain grateful for the food pantry’s gift card, even though I could not use it that evening.

I am also grateful for the woman who stepped forward when the system failed to work as I reasonably expected.

Neither form of help resolves everything; both still matter.

From Receiving Care to Offering It

When I returned to my friend’s grandmother’s home, she mentioned that she wanted some applesauce but did not have any.

As it so happened, I did; on a previous shopping trip, I had purchased a bulk package containing three large jars.

Buying in bulk had given me more than I immediately needed, which meant I was able to offer one to her.

It was a simple exchange; no dramatic gesture, no elaborate solution—just a jar of applesauce passed from one person to another.

Yet the moment felt like a quiet completion of the day.

Not long before, I had been standing at a grocery-store checkout unable to use the gift card I had expected to rely upon.

A stranger saw the difficulty and paid for my groceries.

Then I came home and discovered that something already in my possession could meet another person’s immediate need.

Earlier, I received care.

Now, I could offer it.

People experiencing hardship are often treated as though they belong permanently on one side of generosity.

They are described as recipients, dependents, clients, cases, or people “in need,” while those with greater resources are cast as the helpers.

But human relationships are rarely that one-directional.

A person can need help and still have something meaningful to give.

We may not be able to contribute in the ways society values most.

We may lack money, housing, energy, health, influence, or predictable work capacity, but that does not mean we are empty.

We may have food to share, knowledge to offer, art to create, patience to extend, or the ability to make another person feel remembered.

Receiving support does not cancel our generosity; it often makes generosity possible.

Because someone helped me at the store, I was able to bring my groceries home without the situation consuming even more of my limited resources.

Because I had once been able to buy a multipack of applesauce, I could share what I had.

Because my friend’s grandmother had opened her home to me, I wanted to create a thank-you gift for her.

Care rarely travels in a perfectly straight line; it circulates.

We receive something from one person and offer something different to another; no one keeps an exact ledger.

The stranger at the store may never know about the applesauce, and my friend’s grandmother may never meet the stranger.

Still, both moments belong to the same larger pattern: people noticing what they can do and choosing to make life a little gentler for someone else.

The jar did not repay the shelter and kindness my friend’s grandmother has given me; it was not meant to.

Love and community are not debts to be settled through equal exchanges.

It simply allowed me to say, in one small and practical way: I have something you need. You have shared with me, and I am glad to share with you.

On a day shaped by both scarcity and generosity, that opportunity was one more thing for which I felt thankful.

What Gratitude Is—and What It Is Not

By the end of the day, I had many reasons to feel thankful.

I received a little unexpected work.
I found gasoline for less than I had anticipated.
A free sandwich created an opportunity to reconnect with a friend.
An unsuccessful errand brought me face-to-face with someone from art club.
I found warm gloves before the cold arrived.
A stranger helped me when a confusing checkout process became overwhelming.
Finally, I returned home and discovered that I had something useful to share.

None of that means the day was easy.

The work was last-minute and could not provide sustainable income.

I spent time and gasoline looking for supplies I still had not found.

The gloves cost more than I could comfortably afford.

The grocery store’s unclear notice created an unnecessary difficulty.

Beneath all of those events remained the larger realities of chronic autistic burnout, disability, financial insecurity, unstable housing, and insufficient support.

Gratitude did not remove any of those truths.

That distinction matters because gratitude is sometimes presented as a demand to stop acknowledging what is wrong.

People may respond to suffering by listing whatever is going well, as though the existence of something good disproves the existence of hardship:

At least you earned some money.
At least you have a car.
At least someone bought your groceries.
At least you have somewhere to stay.

Those things can be genuinely worthy of appreciation while still being inadequate answers to the underlying problems.

A temporary place to stay is not the same as secure housing.
Occasional work is not stable income.
One person’s generosity is not an accessible support system.
A moment of relief is not long-term safety.

When gratitude is used to silence pain, it becomes another form of denial.

Healthy gratitude does not say: “Nothing is wrong because something good happened.”

It says: “Something is still wrong, and something good happened, too.”

Gratitude is not pretending that unmet needs have been met.

It is not accepting injustice, romanticizing poverty, or treating survival as proof that existing systems work.

It does not require suppressing frustration, fear, grief, anger, or exhaustion.

It should never be used to pressure people into tolerating conditions that are harming them.

Gratitude can instead be an act of honest attention.

It notices the lower gas price without denying financial precarity.

It appreciates a pair of gloves while remaining frustrated by the cost.

It receives a stranger’s kindness without concluding that formal assistance is unnecessary.

It treasures a friend’s company without pretending burnout has disappeared.

Toxic positivity edits the difficult parts out of the story, while gratitude allows the whole story to remain true.

Perhaps that is why genuine thankfulness can coexist with advocacy.

I can appreciate the person who helped me while still believing the checkout system should have communicated more clearly.

I can be grateful for occasional work while continuing to say that disabled people deserve sustainable support.

I can appreciate temporary shelter while recognizing that everyone needs stable, safe housing.

Thankfulness does not require me to lower my standards for what people deserve; it simply prevents hardship from making kindness invisible.

Gratitude helps me recognize what eased the burden, who showed up, what nourished me, and what I was still able to offer.

It does not make the burden imaginary; it reminds me that the burden was not the only thing I carried.

Thankful Does Not Mean Everything Is Fine

When I first heard the words “Thankful Thursday,” they referred to a free sandwich.

By the end of the day, they had come to mean much more.

The day was not perfect; it did not resolve my chronic autistic burnout, create sustainable income, provide permanent housing, restore my depleted capacity, or guarantee that I will have enough resources in the future.

I am still tired.
I am still concerned.
I still need more help than scattered moments of generosity can provide.
But I am also thankful.

Those statements do not contradict one another.

Gratitude is not a declaration that life is fair or that our needs no longer matter.

It is not a performance of happiness designed to make other people more comfortable.

It is not an obligation to turn every hardship into a lesson or describe every painful experience as a hidden blessing.

Sometimes a difficult thing is simply difficult.

Still, even within an imperfect day, something kind may reach us.

Someone may make room at a table, offer assistance without demanding an explanation, appear unexpectedly in a store, or mention needing something we happen to have.

The good does not erase the hard, nor does the hard erase the good.

Perhaps thankfulness is the practice of letting both remain visible.

On this particular Thursday, kindness moved through many hands: through a promotional meal, a friend who eagerly accepted an invitation, a few hours of work, a stranger at a checkout, and a woman who gave me shelter and later received something I could share.

None of us solved one another’s lives, but each contribution made part of the day gentler.

That is how care often travels—not through one grand rescue, but through small acts that meet one need, create one opening, or help someone take one more step.

I do not want gratitude to become another way of telling struggling people that they should be satisfied with too little.

We deserve more than occasional relief.

We deserve accessible systems, adequate support, meaningful connection, financial security, and lives that do not require constant crisis management.

At the same time, I do not want the severity of what remains unresolved to make me overlook the care that is already present.

Thankfulness does not mean everything is fine.

It means I noticed what helped.

I noticed who cared.

I noticed what I could still give.

And on an imperfect Thursday, kindness found me more than once; by the end of the day, I had become part of its movement, too.

What helped make your life a little gentler this week—and what kindness were you able to pass along?