Hi NAME, 

Fourteen layers.
Of impossibly thin cake.
With chocolate icing between each one.
And more chocolate icing poured on top... crystallizing into a shell of perfection as it cooled.

This cake was legend.
And as a kid in the '80s, it was the centerpiece of my Thanksgiving.

It came from a little town in Southern Georgia, baked by a woman everyone in town knew by name. She made it in her kitchen and charged no more than $35 for it. We would plan the entire holiday around its arrival.

There was family football, casseroles galore (as any Southern Thanksgiving requires), and chaos in the kitchen.

But the cake? The cake was sacred.

We obsessed. We fought over who got bigger slices. One year, after the "kids" {read: my generation} devoured a little too much in one sitting, my uncle hid it from us for 24 painful hours. Effective punishment.

The following year, we hid it from him. Let’s just say…our version of FUN didn't go over as well. We don't remind him of that particular Thanksgiving if we can help it.

Eventually, when the "kids" grew up and our families spread out across the country, the cake would board flights to arrive at Thanksgiving.

We’d get text updates:

 Cake is boarding the plane.
 Cake has landed.

It became our mythology.

I even brought a sample to my wedding caterer so I could serve it on the day I said “I do.”

But this year?

We won’t have the cake.

The woman who made stopped baking years ago. We tried to source it from other bakers. My cousin got her hands on the recipe to recreate {which, in and of itself was an impossible task we're still not sure how she managed} and attempted to make it herself. Honestly, she deserves a medal. But… despite all of our effort over the years to keep the tradition going, it never was quite the same as the one from Douglas, Georgia.

And this is the first Thanksgiving we’re not even going to try.

I won’t lie. I’m sad.
Not just for the lack of cake, but for what it symbolized.
A thread of continuity across decades. Something that stayed the same while the rest of life changed.

The truth is: everything changes.
Traditions evolve. Children grow up. Recipes disappear.
And that doesn’t mean the magic disappears with them.

This year, we’ll still have family football.
Still have too many sides.
Still have stories around the table.
And still create memories our children will remember even if they’re not wrapped in fourteen layers of drizzled chocolate over butter cake.

And as I sit with the grief of one beloved tradition ending, I’m reminded of something else:

There’s power in letting go.

Sometimes what’s ending isn’t a cake.
It’s a way you’ve been showing up for your work, phoning it in or feeling uninspired.
It's a message you’ve outgrown.
It's a story you’re tired of telling.

And sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is create space for what’s trying to come next.

Whether that’s a new family tradition.
A new story.
Or a new way of using your voice.

So this week, I invite you to pause and really take in what's happening:

 Grieve what’s gone.
 Give thanks for what remains.
 And open to what might be trying to be born next.

Wishing you a holiday full of heart, meaning, and {let’s be honest} … at least one unforgettable dessert.

With so much gratitude,
Elizabeth