sunday morning gratitude
Instead of wallowing, I am noticing.
There are plenty of things I could be stressing about right now. Things that could drag me into a spiral of worry or sadness if I let them. I try to ‘figure everything out’ and get so overwhelmed. But instead of wallowing (even though I really, really, really want to wallow sometimes!), here I am with my music turned up loud, perched on a bouncy medicine ball, bobbing along to the rhythm.
I’ve decided that instead of dwelling on what I don’t have or can’t be, I’m going to focus on what’s already here. Right now.
It’s what the woman I want to be would do.
Gratitude, to me, is like stepping into a sunbeam—warm, golden, and a little bit blinding at first, until your eyes adjust and you realize you’re surrounded by light. It’s noticing the colors, sounds, and textures of life and letting them paint over the dull, gray spaces. Gratitude feels like the hum of a favorite song that gets stuck in your head in the best way. It’s a flavor you can’t quite name but can’t stop savoring—a mix of honeyed sweetness and something slightly tart, like the way the air feels after rain.
This year, I’ve embraced a deeper, more intentional kind of gratitude: the energy of having. It’s a practice that feels less like striving and more like arriving, as if I’ve opened a window to let in a breeze that gently stirs up everything I already possess. It’s not about longing for what could be or waiting for some imagined future where everything is perfect; it’s about anchoring myself in the fullness of this moment and recognizing that so much of what I need is already here.
It’s the subtle but profound shift from asking, “What’s lacking in my life?” to exclaiming, “Wow, look at all I have!” It’s a way of reframing my perspective, turning my focus toward the abundance that often hides in plain sight.
It’s in the little things, like the way the sun filters through my window in the morning, painting my walls with golden streaks. It’s in the simple joy of a familiar song that matches my mood perfectly, or the way my lavender matcha latte smells as I hold it close, the steam curling up like a gentle reminder to breathe. It’s in the big things too—the love of family, the connection of friends, the privilege of a body that moves, even when it aches.
The energy of having isn’t loud or showy; it’s quiet, like the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. It doesn’t demand attention—it invites it, nudging me to notice the moments that make up a beautiful life. It’s an antidote to the feeling of scarcity, the nagging voice that tells me I need to do more, have more, or be more. Instead, it whispers, “You’re enough, and so is this moment.”
The more I lean into this energy, the more I realize how much abundance surrounds me—not in a material sense, but in the richness of experiences, connections, and simple joys. It’s like tuning into a frequency that was always there but somehow got drowned out by the noise of wanting and worrying. And the more I notice, the more it multiplies, spilling over into every part of my life like an overfilled cup.
Leaning into the energy of having has taught me that abundance isn’t about accumulating; it’s about appreciating. It’s about looking at the mosaic of my life, piece by piece, and marveling at the beauty of the picture it creates—not in spite of the cracks but because of them. It’s about letting gratitude shift my gaze, from the horizon of what might be to the treasure trove of what already is.
And when I truly sit with that—when I let the breeze of gratitude stir my soul—I find that the view from here is breathtaking.
So here’s my tapestry of thanks, woven from the moments I’ve gathered this year:
I’m grateful for my morning walks. The rhythm of my feet on the ground feels like a heartbeat, steady and alive. The air tastes different each day—sometimes crisp like an apple, other times soft and warm like melted butter. My body, though it aches and malfunctions sometimes, carries me through these stretches of reflection and discovery. A few years ago, even taking a single step felt like trudging through wet cement, so every mile now feels like a small miracle.
I’m grateful for my yoga practice. It’s like stepping into a room where my body and mind can finally speak the same language. Yoga has taught me to sit with discomfort—not just tolerate it but really sit with it, like welcoming an unexpected guest. My body feels more spacious, there’s more air between my ribs and more light in my joints. I can fold into myself and stretch outward with the same ease that sunlight filters through a window. It makes me feel beautiful—strong and soft, grounded and free.
I’m grateful for the gift of travel. For road trips where the car became a time machine, carrying me through endless landscapes that felt like dreams I didn’t know I’d had. For mountain air that smelled like pine needles and freedom. For sunsets in strange places, where the sky felt close enough to touch, and for the quiet moments spent with locals who offered directions, kind words, or wisdom. I’m grateful for every single mile, every single view, every single "how are you still on the road?!" text from my friends.
I’m grateful for lavender matcha lattes, which taste the way the color purple feels: velvety, soothing, and just a little indulgent. For the crisp glide of my Pilot G2 gel pen across my journal, spilling my thoughts like ribbons of ink that curl and dance on the page.
I’m grateful for music. It doesn’t just fill the room; it paints it. Some songs are blue and endless, like sky reflected on water. Others are sharp, hot streaks of orange and red that burn away whatever heaviness I’m carrying. Music isn’t just sound; it’s a kaleidoscope that colors my emotions and shapes my memories. It’s the rush of a crescendo that feels like running downhill, weightless and wild. It’s the soft, steady thrum that holds me when I can’t hold myself.
I’m grateful for the way light bends at sunrise, spilling gold and peach across the horizon. For the quiet intimacy of a bookstore, where the air smells like aged paper and untold stories. For the perfect first bite of a meal—the way flavors unfurl like a symphony, each note more beautiful than the last.
I’m grateful for family dinners and the warm chaos of being surrounded by people who love you even when you’re a little messy (or a lot). For new friends who feel like old friends and old friends who still show up when you need them most. My friends and family have supported me so much this year; I wouldn’t be here without them! Literally! Some of them are reading this now. THANK YOU, you sweet angel of a human—for loving me and supporting me. I owe you everything.
I’m grateful for the quiet strength it’s taken to grow. For asking myself every day, “What would the woman I want to be do?”—and then try my hardest to show up for her, even when it’s hard, even when I’d rather hit snooze on becoming her. I’m grateful for the messy moments of self-discovery and the courage to show up in the shadows—not to fix them but to befriend them.
I’m grateful for the messy beauty of being human. For the days when I cried so hard it felt like my heart was wringing itself out, and for the nights when laughter came like fireworks, bright and unexpected.
I’m grateful for the community at Greatwoods Zen and for the opportunity to program retreats and workshops around mindfulness and loving yourself. Being a facilitator feels like holding a mirror up to the magic in others. It’s a privilege to create spaces where people can reconnect with themselves, where the air buzzes with shared energy and transformation. I can’t wait to keep growing, crafting workshops and retreats that help others rediscover their magic.
I’m grateful to be in a place of recovery where I can embrace all the parts of myself. Acceptance isn’t a destination—it’s more like a playlist on shuffle, sometimes hitting just the right note, other times skipping awkwardly. But even when it’s hard, I’m here for it.
I could dwell on everything I still have to figure out, on the unresolved, unprocessed chaos of life. (And let’s be real, there’s plenty of that. Had to fight the urge to start listing out all the things but we won’t give that stuff attention right now! It can wait!)
Soaking in all the things that went right feels like a much better use of my time today.
Because here’s what I know: when I practice the energy of having, life feels brighter, softer, and full of possibility. I smile more. I smile at others more. I feel more capable when I try to figure things out. I feel soft enough to ask for help when I need it. Gratitude isn’t about pretending everything is perfect. It’s about noticing that the sunrise still shows up, the music still plays, and the love is still here, waiting for you to notice it.
Abundance is already here. It’s in the love and moments we choose to see, and it’s in the courage to step forward, even when the next step is a little uncertain.
It’s about noticing the way life hums around you—the colors, sounds, and textures that are already here, waiting to be celebrated. When I focus on the energy of having, the world feels brighter, softer, and infinitely more alive.
I feel so lucky to be alive.
Take a moment to look around you. What little things can you notice and appreciate today?
The magic is always there.
( I won’t be mad if you decide to wallow though, we all need space for that too. Just don’t stay there forever. I would miss you.)
—Jessie Raye