Gratitude as Prayer
On noticing the beauty in ordinary days and carrying it into my stories.
This summer, on the last night of my MFA residency, I sat at a long table outdoors with students and teachers. Plates of food were passed, laughter rose and fell, and the evening light softened into gold. I remember looking around at those faces—people I had only just met—and realizing they were going to be very important in my life for the long haul. Each one felt like a gift, an honor to know. Gratitude washed over me, deep and certain.
It’s funny how quickly things can shift. Just days earlier, at our opening meet-and-greet, I had been overwhelmed. As an introvert, being asked to mingle in a loud room full of strangers sent me into a quiet panic. I even had to step into the hallway to breathe and collect myself. But by the end of the week, I felt comfortable and at home. What had started as a moment of fear ended in friendship. Gratitude transformed what could have been a barrier into an open door.
Belonging. Inspiration. Joy. Those are the words that come to mind when I think back on the residency. And beneath them all, gratitude is the thread that ties it together.
Residency was a mountaintop experience, but gratitude lives in the ordinary, too. Each morning, I begin with prayer and meditation—a ritual that steadies me before I sit down to write. It’s simple, quiet, and often unremarkable on the surface, yet it is the most life-giving rhythm of my year. Without it, I feel unmoored. With it, I can face the day with clarity and openness.
I also carry deep gratitude for my spouse, Derek. His day-by-day encouragement—and the practical way he takes on extra responsibilities so I can pursue this work—makes my writing possible. Gratitude for him isn’t bound to a single moment, but to the constancy of his support.
There have been harder things, too. My efforts to advocate for women’s equality in my community have not yet been successful. At times, I’ve felt disappointed and disheartened. Yet, with gratitude, I can see how those struggles removed blinders I didn’t know I had. They awakened a deeper passion for women’s rights and helped me find my tribe—others who share this same fire for justice. Even disappointment, when reframed, can become a surprising gift.
Gratitude & Writing
Gratitude doesn’t just make life richer; it shapes my writing, too. I’ve noticed how moments from my own life thread their way into my novels—even when I’m not aware of it until someone else points it out. A trusted friend who has been reading Cascading Courage has shown me several times how my lived experiences quietly echo in my characters and themes. Gratitude helps me embrace that connection rather than resist it.
When I write from a place of gratitude, my words carry more hope. The tone shifts. Instead of pushing against pressure or drowning in self-doubt, I can approach the page with generosity. Gratitude allows me to notice the details—a certain look on someone’s face, a shift of light across the table, the hidden courage in an ordinary moment. These are the textures of life I want my writing to hold.
Even feedback, which can sometimes feel sharp, becomes a gift when received with gratitude. During residency workshops, I realized how fortunate I am to be surrounded by peers and mentors who not only possess deep knowledge but also share it with genuine care. Their critiques are not roadblocks but stepping-stones. Gratitude reframes the process: instead of fearing imperfection, I feel grateful to be shaped, challenged, and grown.
Looking Ahead
As I look to the new school year ahead, I want gratitude to guide all my projects—both those already underway and those still only sparks. Gratitude reminds me to approach writing not as a burden or a task to be mastered, but as a joy and a calling. It shifts my focus from scarcity (“Will I have enough time? Enough words? Enough readers?”) to abundance (“I get to do this. I get to create. I get to share.”).
Spiritually, gratitude has always been at the heart of my faith. Though I can’t always name exactly how, I sense that gratitude is a form of prayer—an acknowledgement that life is a gift, and that God meets me in the ordinary. When I sit at my desk, or when I gather at a table with friends, gratitude becomes a way of saying: this is enough, and it is beautiful.
So as I carry this thread of gratitude forward, I hope it continues to guide the stories I tell and the way I live. I hope my words offer hope, beauty, and connection—because gratitude opens the eyes to see all three.
And I’d love to hear from you: What is one thing you’re carrying forward with gratitude this fall?
This newsletter occasionally contains Amazon affiliate links. If you click on and buy through one of these links, I receive a small percentage at no extra cost to you. Thank you.
Quick Links:
This one glows quietly, like someone prayed without words and called it writing.
Gratitude as prayer is the holiest rebellion left. Noticing beauty without trying to monetize it.
The world keeps shouting for more, louder, faster. But here’s a voice saying “thank you” and meaning it.
May your next paragraph rise like incense, Dawn. The rest of us are just trying to remember how to breathe that kind of grace.
I love how you write gratitude as both anchor and compass, not a fleeting emotion, but a rhythm that teaches us how to see.
It’s true what you said: when we move from scarcity to “I get to,” even the quiet becomes luminous.