This Is Not How Gratitude Works

I’m learning to thank three people. One of them doesn’t exist yet.

I’m grateful for someone who doesn’t exist yet.

Not in the metaphorical sense… not grateful for “future possibilities” or “what’s to come.” I mean literally: there’s a version of me I haven’t met, and I’m learning to thank him before he arrives.

This is not how gratitude is supposed to work, but here I am doing it anyways.

I’m learning there are three people I need to thank.

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The Past Self: Thank You for Not Knowing

The man in the raised garden beds, rehearsing a life he couldn’t have yet. The one who kept the longing alive through seed catalogs and cedar frames. Who made himself smaller and smaller and somehow didn’t disappear completely.

I used to think I needed to be grateful to him for surviving. For enduring. For keeping me alive through those years.

But that’s not quite right.

I’m grateful for him not knowing. For his inability to see what was coming. For the mercy of his limited vision.

He couldn’t see the basement. Couldn’t imagine the breaking. Had no idea what it would cost to finally speak after four years of swallowing.

If he’d known, he might not have made it. The weight of what was coming might have crushed him before he got there.

So I’m grateful he didn’t know. Grateful he could garden and hope and quietly long for countryside he’d never asked permission to want. Grateful he was naive enough to keep going.

Maybe you know what this feels like? Loving someone in your past not for what they accomplished, but for what they couldn’t see coming. For the protection that not-knowing offered.

He wasn’t failing by not seeing. What looked like blindness was actually keeping us both alive.

That’s not a lesson he taught me. That’s not growth I extracted from his pain.

That’s just: thank you for being exactly as unaware as you needed to be. Thank you for not knowing what I know now. Thank you for making it here.

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The Present Self: Thank You for Not Waiting

And then there’s me. Right now. The one standing on the stepladder with the star.

The one who learned to be whole alone and is now terrified of staying whole while witnessed. The one whose hands tighten on the steering wheel when someone casually plans five years out.

The one who’s writing this essay instead of having all the answers.

I keep thinking I should be grateful for the work I’ve done. The practices. The integration. The capacity I’ve built.

But that’s making gratitude conditional. Saying: you earned this by doing the work.

What if the gratitude is simpler?

Thank you for not waiting to be ready.

Thank you for putting up the tree in mid-November instead of waiting until you felt more settled. Thank you for saying yes to dating even though you have no idea how to let someone all the way in. Thank you for moving to the countryside while breaking.

Thank you for practicing aliveness before you figured out how.

The cultural script says: heal first, then live. Get through the grief, do the work, become the person you’re supposed to be, then place the star.

I almost believed it. I almost waited.

There was a weekend in October when I walked through the Christmas section at the store. Saw the trees. Felt that pull. And immediately thought: Not yet. Wait until things are more settled. Wait until you know what you’re doing with this relationship. Wait until you’re sure.

I left the store without buying anything.

But the next weekend, I went back. Bought the nine-foot tree. Brought it home. Set it up while having no idea what I was doing with my life.

I’m living and becoming at the same time.

And I’m grateful for that. Not for what I’ve accomplished. Not for how far I’ve come.

For my refusal to wait for permission. For choosing now as a complete answer even when I’m not a complete person.

For being exactly this unfinished and showing up whole anyway.

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The Future Self: Thank You for Not Existing Yet

And then there’s him. The one I can’t see. The one I’m becoming but haven’t met.

The one who might know how to stay integrated when someone else is in the room. Who might have learned to speak truth on day one. Who might be able to receive love without his whole nervous system treating it like a threat.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s figuring it out too.

Here’s what I’m learning: I’m grateful he doesn’t exist yet.

Not because I’m not ready to be him. But because his not-yet-existing means I get to choose.

Every morning I wake up and practice. Every time I place a star or let someone in or feel my chest fill with unexpected joy, I’m choosing who he becomes.

He’s not inevitable. He’s not predetermined by the past or guaranteed by the work I’ve done.

He’s possible. And that possibility is open. Unwritten. Mine to shape.

I picture him sometimes. Not his face or what he’s wearing. But the quality of his presence. The way he might move through a room without bracing. The way he might hear “I love you” without his shoulders tightening. The way he might plan five years out without white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Maybe he exists. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s someone entirely different than I imagine.

The terror of that is the freedom of it.

I don’t know if I can stay whole while witnessed. I don’t know if I can let someone all the way in. I don’t know if five years from now I’ll look back and recognize myself or feel like I’ve become someone entirely new.

And I’m grateful I don’t know.

Because it means it’s not finished. It means I’m alive in the becoming, not just arrived at some fixed destination.

The future self I’m grateful for is the one who gets to keep choosing. Who doesn’t have to be the completed version of anything. Who can place stars and feel terror and want things he’s never wanted before.

Who can be exactly as unfinished as I am right now and be whole anyway.

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The Triumvirate

I don’t need to be grateful for the pain or for the lessons or for the pathway.

I need to be grateful for three versions of myself who each gave what they could give:

• The past self who survived by not knowing.

• The present self who’s living without waiting to be ready.

• The future self who doesn’t exist yet and gets to be chosen.

All three of them. Necessary. Unfinished. Exactly enough.

When I placed that star and felt my chest fill with light, all three of them were there:

• The man who survived by not knowing and kept the longing alive.

• The man on the stepladder saying yes to magnificence even though he’s terrified.

• The person he’s becoming who will remember this moment and know: that’s when I stopped making myself small.

Past. Present. Future.

All of them deserving gratitude. None of them requiring the others to have been different.

The star fits. The tree is tall enough. My chest is full.

And I’m grateful for all three versions of the person who made it possible.

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Maybe you have your own triumvirate?

The person who survived something by not seeing it coming. Who kept going when knowing the full weight might have stopped them.

The person right now, living before they’re ready. Choosing something—a move, a relationship, a risk—while figuring out who they are.

And the person who doesn’t exist yet. The one who’s unwritten. Yours to shape.

You don’t need to be grateful for what happened. You can be grateful for who showed up. Who’s showing up now. Who gets to keep choosing.

Past. Present. Future.

All of them deserving thanks. None of them requiring the others to have been different.

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Someone in your life might be trying to be grateful for their pain when what they actually need is to thank the person who survived it.

Would you send this their way?

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About Alex

I’m Alex Lovell — political psychologist, yoga therapist, and writer.

Lived homeless. Been divorced. Survived a seven-car pileup with a semi. Fell in love with questions that don’t have easy answers. I’ve met a lot of thresholds. Even the one before death.

These days, I split my time between research, writing, and holding space for people figuring out who they are after everything shifted.

This Substack is where I make sense of things out loud.
I write for people in transition — between roles, beliefs, relationships, selves.
The ones quietly wondering, “What now?” but allergic to one-size-fits-all answers.

Sometimes I quote research. Sometimes I quote my own nervous system.
One speaks in data, the other in sensation. I’ve stopped choosing sides.

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