My Gratitude "Practice"

A different take on gratitude—not the list kind, but the kind I actually feel. It’s not for everyone—but for those it is, it’s just right.

Author

Steve Mesler
November 05, 2025

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I’ve learned that, for me, gratitude lives in the details.

Now, I never took to the gratitude lists or the daily “I’m grateful for this, I’m grateful for that.” I tried it, honestly and steadfastly, until I become comfortable with it. And yet, it just felt forced—like I was trying to talk myself into something instead of actually feeling it. If it works for you, that’s great. I just couldn’t get it to land for me that way.

Over time—especially since climbing out of my depression—I’ve learned, for me, that gratitude isn’t something for me to perform; it’s something for me to notice. The small stuff. A quiet moment, a good decision, a win that matters only to me. And learning to actually pause when I feel that… that took practice.

I also learned why it matters. We’re wired to hunt the lions in our lives for survival—the next goal, the next hit of progress. That’s dopamine doing its job, keeping us moving, keeping us alive. But it never tells us when to stop. Gratitude does. It’s the thing that completes the loop, releasing the chemistry that says, “You’re safe. You’re good. Share your bounty with the others.” It calms the nervous system and lets drive turn into peace instead of burnout.

These days, I just try to notice more. The little things that make me feel grounded without needing to call them gratitude. On Halloween night, I wrote something down and sent it to a friend who I thought might get it, then rewrote it for myself. No expectations. Just a moment that felt worth keeping.

At the time, I was writing it because I thought it and felt it, and wanted to feel it deeper. And writing is one way to do that. Sharing it with others is another way. When I read through it now though, I can spot at least 28 different things I’m grateful for. That’s enough to overcome 6-7 negative things I may say about myself. 

I’m sharing this to give you a glimpse of what gratitude looks like for me—one version, not the version—with the hope that it helps you see gratitude a little differently. Maybe even in a way that feels a bit more natural and doable in your own life.

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You
I’m sitting here in the same La-Z-Boy I bought three years after arriving in Calgary—22 years ago now. The one that’s followed me through more moves, races, and chapters than I can count. I bought it when I was living with one of the guys I’d later win Olympic gold with, Curt. He wasn’t even in my sled back then. Just another poor athlete sleeping on the couch for an entire summer of training for the Olympics while we finished the basement like a bunch of broke college kids with big dreams.

The two other guys I lived with those years, Brock and Pavle—I missed an Olympic medal with them by less than a second after four minutes of racing in Italy in 2006. Pavle’s gone now. He took his own life five years ago. I think about him often, especially tonight.

Because here I am—same chair, same body that’s seen it all, comfortably sitting underneath the same soft Bills blanket everyone in my family owns as they’re spread across the other side of the continent—happily full of pizza and wings after walking the neighborhood with the kids for Halloween.

I was in my blue 7-foot-tall inflatable Daddy Shark costume. Rhiannon in pink Mommy Shark.

The Jays are on TV in the World Series for the first time since I was barely older than Brett (our daughter) is now.

The kids keep bouncing back and forth between the living room and the dining room table—my parents table I grew up around in Buffalo—spreading out their candy just like my sister and I did 40 years ago. There’s laughter, explanations to me about their negotiations with the Switch Witch, candy trades, and sugar highs.

And then the doorbell rings—again—and they sprint to hand out candy to the next wave of trick-or-treaters, still giggling, still in it.

And I’m just sitting here—watching, remembering, feeling.

Knowing life is good.
And wanting, more than anything,
to remember this day.
8:24 PM

- Steve

What’s been happening?
👇

My gratitude text…

I’m sitting here in the same La-Z-Boy I bought three years after arriving in Calgary—22 years ago now. The one that’s followed me through more moves, races, and chapters than I can count. I bought it when I was living with one of the guys I’d later win Olympic gold with, Curt. He wasn’t even in my sled back then. Just another poor athlete sleeping on the couch for an entire summer of training for the Olympics while we finished the basement like a bunch of broke college kids with big dreams.

The two other guys I lived with those years, Brock and Pavle—I missed an Olympic medal with them by less than a second after four minutes of racing in Italy in 2006. Pavle’s gone now. He took his own life five years ago. I think about him often, especially tonight.

Because here I am—same chair, same body that’s seen it all, comfortably sitting underneath the same soft Bills blanket everyone in my family owns as they’re spread across the other side of the continent—happily full of pizza and wings after walking the neighborhood with the kids for Halloween.

I was in my blue 7-foot-tall inflatable Daddy Shark costume. Rhiannon in pink Mommy Shark.

The Jays are on TV in the World Series for the first time since I was barely older than Brett (our daughter) is now. 

The kids keep bouncing back and forth between the living room and the dining room table—my parents table I grew up around in Buffalo—spreading out their candy just like my sister and I did 40 years ago. There’s laughter, explanations to me about their negotiations with the Switch Witch, candy trades, and sugar highs.

And then the doorbell rings—again—and they sprint to hand out candy to the next wave of trick-or-treaters, still giggling, still in it.

And I’m just sitting here—watching, remembering, feeling.

Knowing life is good.
And wanting, more than anything,
to remember this day.

- Steve