Thanksgiving is supposed to be a day wrapped in warmth—full grocery carts, full bellies, full tables, full hearts. But this year, something shattered that picture for me in a way I’m still struggling to process.

I work for a major grocery chain in a small rural community. Most days are predictable—routine shifts, familiar faces, the usual holiday bustle. But on Thanksgiving morning 2025, something happened that left me with a heavy, lingering ache I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.

While taking empty pallets out of the store, I saw a couple at our food compost bin. At first I wasn’t sure what they were doing—bent over, sorting through the cold November air and the compost bin. But in a few seconds, it became painfully clear. They were digging for food. Not scraps for animals. Not something to rescue out of curiosity. They were searching desperately, carefully, hopefully… for anything edible.

And they found some.

A few apples. Some pieces of produce. A handful of items that, for most of us, would’ve been an easy decision: toss it out and grab something fresher. But for them, this was Thanksgiving dinner.

The way they looked at those apples—relieved, almost grateful—felt like a punch to the gut. It was a glimpse of hunger, humiliation, survival, and quiet resilience all tangled together. And I can’t unsee it.

In a year when the world feels loud with talk of gratitude, abundance, and celebration, it’s hard to reconcile that scene with the messages we plaster across ads and social media. “Give thanks.” “Gather around the table.” “Feast.” The polite, cheerful language of the season rings hollow when the reality for so many people is that their “feast” comes from a compost bin.

I stood there longer than I probably should have, frozen between heartbreak and helplessness. Part of me wanted to go over and say something—anything. Offer to help. Offer to buy them a meal. Offer dignity. But another part of me didn’t want to draw any more attention to their struggle. Poverty has a way of stripping people down until they feel exposed enough already. And the last thing I wanted was to add to that.

So I just watched, quietly, feeling like I was witnessing something I was never meant to see.

And maybe that’s the problem: so many people’s suffering stays hidden. Behind dumpsters. Behind doors. Behind pride. Behind the illusion that rural communities are simple, wholesome, uncomplicated places where “everyone helps everyone.” The truth is much harder. Many small-town families are barely hanging on. Food insecurity is everywhere—it’s just quieter here.

The couple eventually walked away, holding their small collection of rescued food. I wanted to run after them. I wanted to fix everything. But life isn’t a movie, and poverty isn’t solved in a single moment of compassion.

Since seeing them, I’ve been sitting with a strange mixture of sadness, anger, guilt, and clarity. Sadness because no one should have to dig through compost for dinner—on Thanksgiving or any day. Anger because we live in a society that allows this level of need to exist right under our noses. Guilt because I have a home, a table, and a meal waiting for me. And clarity because this was a reminder—raw and undeniable—that gratitude means nothing if it isn’t paired with awareness and action.

I don’t have a perfect ending or a tidy message. Just a heart that feels bruised and a wish that I could unsee the hunger in their eyes. But maybe I’m not supposed to unsee it. Maybe none of us are. Maybe moments like this are meant to pull us out of our comfortable bubble and make us pay attention.

I hope that someday soon, that couple—and countless others like them—won’t have to choose between pride and hunger. I hope rural communities receive the support they desperately need. And I hope we start looking at Thanksgiving not just as a day of abundance… but as a reminder of the responsibility we carry to make sure everyone has a seat at the table.

Until then, I’ll hold onto that moment—not to dwell, but to stay awake. To stay human. To do better when I can.

And to never forget that just beyond the celebration, someone might be struggling to simply survive.