There’s a timeline that dictates the average, well-adjusted person’s life—earn a diploma by this year, meet your significant other by this birthday, have children by this age. While society has become more flexible with these larger milestones, there’s been little reform for socially acceptable activities on certain days of the year, namely Thanksgiving. We are to spend this holiday feasting on home-cooked family dinners or testing our own culinary skills at a Friendsgiving. It is sad if you do not participate in these pumpkin-filled festivities.

It is Thanksgiving and I am eating alone at an all-you-can-eat Brazilian BBQ. Families and couples squish together in the booths like they are posing for this year’s Christmas card. They have itineraries and places to be: Mom’s for dinner, Aunt’s for a second dinner, and Grandpa’s for dessert. My agenda is a plate of mashed potatoes and an endless supply of charred meat on a stick. All day.

It is not a big deal for me to be alone on Thanksgiving because my friends and family exist. I am alone in this restaurant on this day, but not in life. It is odd how our concern for others’ loneliness is exclusive to national holidays, even more odd that we believe the physical presence of someone else, anyone, is a surefire cure to that loneliness.

I am sitting by myself, but I do not feel alone. I have this weird thing I do where I think of myself as a separate person. It has made me very appreciative of all I do, even if it is not much. I cook for myself, I clean up after myself, I discipline myself at work and in the gym, and I treat myself to chocolate chip cookies and Grey’s Anatomy marathons. A mental coach and emotional cheerleader, I’m like my own perfect girlfriend who wants sex at all the right times.

I don’t mean to sound vain or diminish the support of my friends and family. I owe a great many things to the people in my life. Without them, I would be a new definition of gloomy. But while others like my parents or scholarship funds have generously provided for me, no other person has lived my life. No other person has lived yours.

I’ve stayed in bed with myself on my sickest days, poured myself coffee to endure countless all-nighters, wiped my own tears after heartbreak, and accompanied myself on a reckless and liberating semester-long adventure in Europe.

I am the only one who has experienced all my triumphs and failures, carried my guilt and regret, heard my raw and unfiltered thoughts, and loved me in spite of it all. The dreams I forget the moment I wake up, the ambitions I’m too embarrassed to admit, the times I give up inside and smile anyway—only I know. I have many flaws, but I am glad I understand.

Friends think I’m weird when I laugh to myself with no stimulus—no phone lighting up in my palm and no headphones over my ears. But I’m just responding to Connie’s thoughts. She’s not the funniest person I know, but we share the same sense of humor. And she’s only half the comedian she is the mentor. She struggles, but she does her best. When she reaches the limits of her guidance, she encourages me to write and work through my own problems (because sometimes, neither of us knows what the hell is going on with my life). Most importantly, she reminds me that there are dozens who love me, but there is no love that can replace my own self-esteem.

We dedicate this day to gratitude, and while it is imperative to thank those around us, it’s not wrong to thank and love ourselves.

I am spending my first Thanksgiving alone and I am immensely grateful for the company.