I’m not going to give you a list of holiday tips this week. You can find a hundred of those. Instead, I want to walk you through the day the way a lot of the young adults we work with actually experience it, hour by hour.
Fair warning: parts of this story might feel a little depressing to read, especially if it sounds familiar. Stick with me. There’s an optimistic take waiting at the end, and I promise it’s worth getting to.
Meet Spencer. Spencer is 21 and living at home.
Last Thanksgiving, Spencer wasn’t there. It had been a rough fall, there was a big blowup at home in October, and by November Spencer was in a residential program three states away. The family was told Spencer was “getting some help,” and that was about it. Everyone noticed the empty chair, of course, but nobody pried about what exactly was going on.
This year, Spencer is home. He finished an intensive outpatient program two weeks ago and stepped down to one therapy session a week. Most days right now are about the basics: getting out of bed, eating something, going on a walk, texting people back. Some days, that’s all there is. Some days, getting out of bed is the major win.
Not exactly something Spencer wants to explain to his cousin Garrett, who’s actively being recruited to play lacrosse at Georgetown.
Wednesday, 11:47pm
Spencer can’t sleep. Tomorrow, twenty-three relatives will be in the house, and all of them know he missed last year. Some know why. Some think they know why. A few have definitely been talking about it.
He lies in bed rehearsing answers to “so what have you been up to?”
The honest answer is “Trying to stay afloat. Trying not to turn to alcohol and weed. Trying not to blow up at my parents.” But of course, he can’t say that.
“Just taking some time for myself.” Sounds like a vacation. “Figuring stuff out.” Sounds like nothing. “Getting healthy.” Sounds like an opening for follow-up questions he doesn’t want to answer. Every option feels like it’ll get either a pitying head tilt or a quiet judgment.
Ughhhh. Spencer rolls over and keeps doomscrolling, avoiding an impossibly uncomfortable tomorrow, until he passes out around 3am.
Thursday, 11:00am
Spencer sleeps in, partly because he didn’t fall asleep until 3am and partly because he just doesn’t want to get out of bed. When he finally comes downstairs, the kitchen is in full swing. Mom is stressed about the turkey. Dad is looking for the extension leaf for the table.
His younger brother Owen, who has slowly taken over the role of the older sibling (which has only made every interaction more agonizing for Spencer’s pride), asks him to “help out.” Spencer bites his cheek so he doesn’t start the day with a snappy comment, and instead stands in the middle of the kitchen feeling useless and in the way. So he goes back upstairs.
On his way up, he hears his dad mutter “of course.” It makes him want to stay in his room forever.
A little while later, Spencer hears his older sister Liza come in downstairs. She just landed from Denver, where she moved for work this summer. She’s her usual energetic ball of sunshine, and laughter floats up the stairs as everyone greets her. Spencer puts his headphones on and opens a video game.
For a second, he thinks about how much he and Liza used to laugh together. He used to be the one who could make her crack up. Lately, it feels like they live on different planets.
1:30pm
The doorbell. Then again. Then again.
Spencer makes his way downstairs. He threw on a flannel but is still in his Nike sweats, and his mom gives him a look. Luckily, guests are flowing through the door, which saves him from a wardrobe conversation.
Cousin Maya, who’s the same age as Spencer, arrives with her boyfriend and a job at a consulting firm she can’t stop mentioning. Cousin Ben is a junior in college and just got back from studying abroad in Spain. Grandma hugs Spencer, tells him he needs a haircut because he’s so handsome, and that he really needs to use his potential.
Does it make Spencer feel any better? Not at all.
He just smiles, tosses out the usual “good to see you,” “it’s been so long,” and “I’m doing good, how are you,” and counts the minutes until dinner.
2:15pm
Aunt Deb, by the cheese plate, totally well-meaning: “So what have you been up to these days, sweetie?”
“Uh, just taking some time to focus on myself,” Spencer says.
Aunt Deb does the head tilt. The soft voice. “Well, that’s so important. We were all so worried about you last year.” Then she gently squeezes his arm, the way you’d comfort someone at a funeral.
Spencer says “thanks,” excuses himself to grab a Diet Coke, and stands in the pantry for four minutes.
Here’s what Aunt Deb can’t see. The pity doesn’t feel kind from Spencer’s side. It feels like confirmation that everyone in this house sees him as the family’s problem. The cousin who fell apart. The cautionary tale. He’d honestly rather be asked about the weather.
3:45pm
Dinner. The food is fine. Conversations are happening all around Spencer, about Liza’s apartment, Ben’s trip, Garrett’s recruiting visits, and he doesn’t really take part in any of them. He finishes his plate before everyone else and then just sits there, awkwardly pushing a roll around with his fork.
Then Uncle Dave suggests going around the table and saying what everyone’s grateful for.
Maya is grateful for her new job. Ben is grateful for his semester in Spain. Liza is grateful for her new city and “all the growth this year.” Every answer is a little highlight reel.
Spencer sits there knowing his year looked like a circle of chairs talking about DBT skills. Getting off the medication that made him feel like a zombie. NA meetings. Looking in the mirror, wanting to get in shape, and feeling too unmotivated to go to the gym. The biggest thing that happened this year is that he learned how to get through a Tuesday.
Now it’s his turn.
His mind runs through possible answers. Am I grateful for my family? Kind of, but they’re also making me feel like crap about myself. Am I grateful to be out of treatment? Yeah, but then I’d have to say “treatment.” What the heck am I grateful for?
It feels like being stumped on a test in a foreign language. Spencer ends up saying, “The food.” Everyone laughs politely and gives sympathetic nods. Spencer prays he makes it through the night.
5:30pm
Spencer is in the bathroom. Not doing anything. Just sitting on the edge of the tub, scrolling, taking a breath.
This is the part parents don’t see. The hiding isn’t really about the people downstairs. It’s about feeling like an outsider to a world everyone else in the family seems to live in so easily. A world of jobs and apartments and semesters abroad, where people talk about next year like it’s a given. Spencer isn’t living there right now. He’s living one day at a time, and most days, the hardest part is the first ten minutes after waking up.
There’s also a quieter feeling underneath it all: shame.
Spencer doesn’t feel like his best self, doesn’t look like his best self, and knows everyone downstairs is comparing this version of him to the one they remember. He used to be the loud, laughing, rambunctious one. His cousins cracked up at everything he did. His uncle used to scoop him up and toss him in the air. Even the family dogs went to him first to play tug of war.
Now he mostly feels empty and numb. Hiding feels safer than being seen as the version of himself he is right now. The truth is, he doesn’t feel good about himself. He doesn’t have anything he’s proud to show anyone.
Ten minutes later, someone knocks. Spencer flushes for realism and goes back out.
7:00pm
Pie. Things get easier. People are full and sleepy, the football game is on, and nobody’s asking questions anymore.
Spencer ends up in the corner with his youngest cousin, who’s eight and wants to show him a video game. The eight-year-old doesn’t know about last year and doesn’t care. With all the time Spencer’s spent in his room lately, he’s gotten pretty good, and when he pulls off a win in the last few seconds, his little cousin turns to him with his mouth hanging open like Spencer is a god.
It’s the best twenty minutes of the day. Probably because an eight-year-old just likes Spencer for being Spencer, exactly as he is right now. And even more than that, he looks up to Spencer.
Spencer feels a tiny flicker of something in his chest. Is that pride?
9:30pm
The last car pulls out of the driveway. The house is quiet.
Mom says, “That was nice, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Spencer says.
His mom looks like she wants to say something more. She just isn’t sure what, and doesn’t want to upset him or say the wrong thing. So she says, “Well, goodnight, sweetie. Don’t forget your meds.”
Spencer nods and feels that familiar heaviness of being a disappointment.
Friday, 2:00pm
Spencer wakes up and doesn’t leave his room. He pulls up Indeed, because everyone keeps telling him to get a part-time job, but every time he scrolls it feels overwhelming, and he doesn’t even have anything to put on a resume. He gives up after half an hour.
Okay, deep breath
I told you it would be heavy. For a lot of families, though, this is close to the truth of what their young adult is going through on a day like this.
So now, as promised, here’s my optimistic take.
This is one Thanksgiving. One single day. And if we judge a whole person, or a whole year, by one day, we’re setting everyone up to fail. A day can feel huge because of the turkey and the relatives and the photos, but it still doesn’t get to represent everything.
Here’s what that day doesn’t show.
Spencer has actually made significant progress. He’s not in treatment anymore. He’s showing up to therapy and to meetings. He made it through a twenty-three-person family dinner without blowing up at anyone, which a year ago would’ve been unthinkable.
And whether it came through in the story or not, Spencer wants to get better. Of course he does. Very few people actually don’t.
He just doesn’t know how. He’s at the bottom of a hole, and the way out looks way too tall to climb. And when you don’t feel good about yourself, every head tilt and every “don’t forget your meds” becomes more proof to yourself that you’re the “problem child,” the “disappointment”, which makes it even harder to try, which makes you feel like more of the problem child, more of a disappointment. It can turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy pretty fast.
So how do we make next Thanksgiving look different?
Go back to 7pm for a second. To the eight-year-old looking at Spencer in awe.
That was the only moment all day when someone looked at Spencer and saw something worth admiring. No head tilt. No comparison to Garrett or Liza. No reminder of last year. Just a kid who thought Spencer was really, really good at something. And for twenty minutes, Spencer felt a flicker of the guy he used to be.
That flicker matters more than it looks, because what Spencer is really missing right now is self-esteem. And self-esteem is the motor behind motivation.
When you feel even a little proud of yourself, trying the next thing feels possible. When you don’t, every step feels pointless before you’ve even taken it.
The good news is that self-esteem gets rebuilt the same way it gets lost: slowly, brick by brick. Each brick is something small that Spencer does himself and can actually claim. Walking every day for a week. Cooking dinner for the family one night. Getting to every meeting this month. Finishing a book. Picking up one shift somewhere. Teaching his little cousin how to beat a level. What matters is that these wins are his, and he can look at them and say, “I did that.”
And here’s the part that gives me so much hope. Bricks stack. One small win makes the next one a little easier to go after, which makes the one after that easier still.
Pride turns into motivation, and motivation turns into momentum that keeps picking up speed. A week of walks can turn into a gym routine. One shift can turn into a steady job. A month of meetings can turn into a year. It almost always starts smaller than anyone expects.
Some of the bricks can come from you, by noticing them. Telling him what you saw and what you’re proud of, even when it’s small. Asking about the game he’s good at instead of the job he doesn’t have. Saying “I’m really glad you were here this year” instead of “don’t forget your meds.”
And a lot of them will come from people outside the family. A coach, a mentor, a boss at a first part-time job, a friend from a meeting. People who meet Spencer as he is now and help him find things worth being proud of. Those relationships are often where the flicker turns into something bigger.
Next Thanksgiving, if this year goes the way it can, Spencer might have a different answer to “what have you been up to?” One he’s actually proud of. One he built himself, with a few people in his corner reminding him to lift his chin and keep going toward the life he actually wants.
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