The year taught me to count blessings the way a surfer counts sets—eyes on the horizon, patient, ready for whatever rolls in. I began in a hospital room listening to rain bead down the window like a slow marimba, measuring progress in hallway laps and spoonfuls of soup. The world outside seemed to thunder with turmoil. Yet, inside that room, there were tiny mercies that changed everything: a nurse who told the same silly joke at 3 a.m., a doctor who lingered to hear the end of a story, my Doctor coming to my room to just spend time with me watching a futbol match, and a sister who texted like a lighthouse, steady and bright. Somewhere between the monitors and the morning coffee, I realised that accepting my condition and being truly, stubbornly grateful has been healing for me.
Illness did a curious bit of housekeeping on my life. Some people I was sure would be there slipped quietly away. Others I’d labelled as acquaintances arrived like angels with hot meals, lifts to appointments, and the sort of practical kindness that doesn’t ask for thanks but makes recovery possible. My circle didn’t shrink; it clarified. I learnt to say “thank you” in the moment, not as a ceremony but as a habit, like breathing. I also learned to accept help from others. This was very difficult for me as I was usually the one giving help.
When I was finally strong enough to walk the beach again, Guanacaste greeted me with its usual generosity: a sky painted by a show-off of a sun, a macaw arrowing overhead, and a lone surfer tracing lines on the face of a small, friendly wave. Nearby, friends strolled barefoot, talking about nothing and everything—how the green season fattened the hills, which soda still makes the best gallo pinto, which local band had surprised us at a backstreet bar. Gratitude didn’t feel grand; it felt ordinary and exact. It tasted of salt, smelt of wet earth, and sounded like laughter landing on the wind. After my move to Escazu, I have a new appreciation for the coolness that is helping me promote my healing.
Costa Rica teaches this lesson daily if you let it. Adventure is not only a canopy zip or a river rapid; it’s the first paddle stroke on glassy water after weeks indoors. Culture isn’t limited to a theatre premiere; it’s the mural you stop to watch being born on a San José wall. Entertainment is a three-song set from a teenager with a battered guitar at a café in Nosara. Wildlife is a turtle dragging moonlight onto shore, or a toucan interrupting your thoughts with a flash of yellow and green. Real estate can be a family closing handled with integrity that quiets their worries. Business can be a small shop that keeps staff on through the slow months and celebrates the first full booking of high season with a shared casado. Food, of course, is everything: a mango eaten over the sink; a bowl of black beans and rice that tastes like home even if home is a country you chose later in life.
The great surprise of the year was how small kindnesses outweigh grand gestures. A short visit trumps a long, postponed promise. A message that simply reads, “Thinking of you,” can stave off a dark hour. Recovery wasn’t dramatic; it was incremental and strangely creative. I learnt to set micro-goals: one corridor, one phone call, one sunset. On the worst days, I thanked my body for the one thing it still did well—breathe, rest, hold on—and the act of thanks loosened the knot in my chest.
As the calendar edges towards the year’s last page, I feel the hinge of a chapter closing. It was a difficult chapter, full of needles and numbers, but also of found family and unearned kindness. Friends stood fast. People I’d barely noticed became essential. My sister’s steadiness rewrote the weather. Doctors cared beyond their charts. Nurses turned long nights into human time. These people are stitched into the fabric of my life now; no future chapter makes sense without them.
So this month of giving thanks is not a polite pause between festivities for me; it is the rhythm I want to carry forward. The world can feel unsteady. But here, under a lavish sky and among good people, there is a way to live that keeps its hand open. Gratitude, offered and received, keeps us brave. I’m grateful I stayed. I’m grateful I healed. And I’m grateful that tomorrow, if I’m lucky, will bring another ordinary miracle: hot coffee, a friendly wave, a kind word, and the chance to say “thank you” again.
