Gratitude for the Things We Do Not See or Perceive

Gratitude is easy when life is smooth, when the blessings are obvious, when the moments sparkle, when everything lines up the way we hoped.

But the real test, the one that reveals who we are and who we want to be, comes when the world feels like it’s unraveling and we’re asked to be thankful anyway.

Gratitude in those seasons, the less obvious kind, is the hardest. And also, I’ve learned, the most necessary.

As Thanksgiving approaches, many of us feel the pressure to name what we’re grateful for even when our hearts are heavy. The holiday reminds us to pause and to reflect, but it can be difficult when the world seems to be spinning too fast. The news scrolls across our phones like an endless reel of heartbreak. Antisemitism rises in places we once felt safe. Israel aches. Families suffer. We hold our breath every time another alert pops up, whispering a prayer before our feet even touch the ground. Gratitude doesn’t come naturally in those moments. Fear does. Anger does. Weariness does.

And yet, this is exactly when gratitude matters most. Not as a way to deny pain or pretend everything is “fine,” but as a way to anchor ourselves in what is still good, still true, still quietly saving us in the background. Gratitude becomes an act of resistance to despair. A decision. A muscle.

I’ve come to understand that some of the greatest gifts in life are the ones we never see.
The crisis narrowly avoided.
The diagnosis that wasn’t.
The phone call that came at the right moment.
The person who showed up with kindness just when we needed a reminder that we are not alone.
The inner strength we didn’t know we had until the world demanded it.

Most of us will never know the full extent of the blessings that unfold behind the scenes. The universe works in shadow sometimes, quietly stitching together moments that protect us, heal us and carry us forward. When I think of gratitude in this way, I think of Hadassah.

Hadassah has always been the place where miracles are happening long before we ever hear about them. Teams of researchers working late into the night to push the boundaries of medicine. Doctors and nurses treating patients who walk into Jerusalem’s hospitals carrying stories of struggle, fear and hope. Scientists advancing stem cell therapies that may one day heal diseases we grew up believing were incurable. Volunteers strengthening Jewish communities in ways that will shape generations we may never meet. Donors who give because they believe in a better tomorrow, even if they aren’t here to see it.

So much of the impact we make as Hadassah women is invisible at first. It shows up later, sometimes years later, in a life saved, a child healed, a community strengthened, or a future leader inspired. Our work is a daily reminder that feeling gratitude doesn’t have to wait for proof. It is something we practice while the world is still messy, still uncertain, still frightening.

And isn’t that what Thanksgiving is at its heart? A reminder to give thanks not only for the abundance we see, but also for the abundance we don’t. The quiet goodness. The unseen helpers. The work happening behind closed doors. The hands lifting others without recognition. The hope carried forward by people we may never meet.

Being grateful for what we neither see nor perceive requires faith. Faith in each other. Faith in our mission. Faith in ourselves. It requires lifting our eyes above the headlines and remembering that there is good happening, too, even if it doesn’t trend or go viral.

It requires choosing to believe that one act of compassion, one donation, one conversation, one voice raised for justice can shift something in the world, even if we never witness the ripple.

And it requires acknowledging that though gratitude does not erase pain, it gives us breath when fear threatens to take our gratitude away. Gratitude softens the edges of grief and reminds us that resilience is not about pretending we’re unbreakable. It is about knowing we can rebuild.

For me, gratitude begins with perspective. It’s waking up and focusing on what I can control: how I show up, how I speak, how I care, how I help, how I choose to see the world. I cannot control the chaos around me, but I can control my response to it. I can root myself in gratitude, even when my voice shakes.

This Thanksgiving, I’m choosing gratitude, not just for the blessings I can name, but for the ones I can’t. For the things that protect me without announcement. For the moments of grace that slip through the cracks. For the strength I don’t recognize until the storm calms. For the Hadassah sisters who remind me that we rise best when we rise together. For the unseen ways our work heals, helps and gives hope across oceans, generations and every challenge we face.

So yes, the world feels heavy. Yes, uncertainty lingers. Yes, there are days when gratitude feels impossible. But those are the days when we need it most because, though our gratitude won’t change the world, it will change us. And, sometimes, that change is the very thing that allows us to keep going, keep fighting and keep believing in the future we’re building, seen and unseen.