Many years ago, when I was in college, I became friends with quite a few students who lived in Tonopah Hall, the only dormitory on the UNLV campus.

As Thanksgiving approached, I learned that several of them wouldn’t be going home for the holiday. Some couldn’t afford the trip. Others simply had nowhere to go.

And with no kitchens in the dorm, even the comfort of preparing a Thanksgiving meal was out of the question.

For many, it was shaping up to be a lonely holiday, spent far from family, surrounded by people but missing the one thing Thanksgiving is supposed to be about.

Belonging.

Enter my mom.

With almost no notice, very little time to prepare, and absolutely no obligation to do so, she opened our home and welcomed 25 hungry college students she’d never met to our family’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Twenty-five complete strangers.

Not a carefully planned gathering.

Not an invitation extended weeks in advance.

Just a mom with a mom’s generous heart who saw a need and decided there was always room for one more.

Or twenty-five.

And somehow, miraculously, there was enough food for everyone.

There were even leftovers.

I’ve celebrated a lot of Thanksgivings since then. Some elaborate, some simple. Some surrounded by family and friends, others a little quieter.

But that particular Thanksgiving remains one of my fondest family memories.

Not because of what was on the table, but because of who was welcomed to sit around it.

My mom taught me something that day without ever intending to.

Hospitality isn’t about having enough. It’s about believing that whatever you have is worth sharing.

Every year, when Thanksgiving rolls around, I remember those friends, that crowded house, and a mom whose generosity was so natural that she probably never imagined I’d still be telling this story decades later.

I wonder how many of those students remember that Thanksgiving, too.

And I wonder how many went on to open their own doors to someone who needed a place to belong.

That’s the beautiful thing about kindness. You rarely know how far it travels, especially at the holidays.

So this Thanksgiving, if there’s an empty chair at your table and someone in your world who might otherwise spend the day alone, consider making room.

You may be creating a memory that lasts a lifetime.

Thanksgiving is always a Friendsgiving when you make it one. ❤️

Or twenty-five more.

And somehow, miraculously, there was enough food for everyone.

There were even leftovers.

I’ve celebrated a lot of Thanksgivings since then. Some elaborate, some simple. Some surrounded by family and friends, others a little quieter.

But that particular Thanksgiving remains one of my fondest family memories.

Not because of what was on the table, but because of who was welcomed to sit around it.

My mom taught me something that day without ever intending to teach a lesson.

Hospitality isn’t about having enough. It’s about believing that what you have is worth sharing.

Every year, when Thanksgiving rolls around, I remember those 25 students, that crowded house, and a mother whose generosity was so natural that she probably never imagined I’d still be telling this story all these years later.

I wonder how many of those students remember that Thanksgiving, too