Work Less, Feel More: Thanksgiving Strategies for Physician Moms 2025
Nov 25, 2025
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I watched a resident jog past the Emergency Room board with the look we all know—seven tasks, three rooms, one human. “I’ll relax when this is over,” she said. I smiled because I used to believe that, too. Then I learned the truth that changed my holidays and my work: you don’t have a time problem; you have a mind problem. Most physician moms can find three minutes. What’s harder is giving ourselves permission to use them.
This is a calm-first plan for a full life. It’s built on two ideas. First, anyone worried about becoming “lazy” almost never is. Second, rest isn’t a prize you earn after you do everything; rest is fuel that lets you do what matters well.
When your brain shouts “Move faster!”
Years ago on a Thanksgiving shift, I started six patients behind. X-ray to review, labs pending, a family at the desk asking for updates every minute. I felt the tunnel close—vision narrows, shoulders rise, judgment tightens. An old mentor’s line rose up: When you feel you must rush… pause. I put one hand on the counter, one on my diaphragm, inhaled slowly, and let the exhale be longer than the inhale. Forty-five seconds. That was enough to see the day differently. I reordered my calls, caught a medication-timing issue, and the shift smoothed out—not because I sped up, but because speed stopped driving.
That same 45 seconds works at home. Try it in the car before you open the garage door, or on the porch before you greet your people. Those breaths are a bridge between the world you just carried and the one you want to create inside.
The Thankful Pause (how to do it without making it a “thing”)
Think of a Thankful Pause as a tiny reset—45 to 90 seconds anywhere (hallway, pantry, beside the CT—Computed Tomography—scanner). Here’s how I teach it:
Give yourself permission: “I have permission to pause.” Saying it out loud helps your nervous system believe you.
Choose an anchor: the feel of your feet on the floor, your hand on your heart, or the breath itself.
Unhook from the thought “I’m behind” by naming it “a thought,” not a fact.
Scan for tension—jaw, shoulders, belly, hands—and soften what you find.
Exit with intention: “For the next 10 minutes, my one priority is ___.”
You just told your brain who’s in charge.
The night-before ritual that makes tomorrow kinder
I don’t stage the house or chase perfection. I do a quiet sweep that protects tomorrow’s brain. Ten minutes in the entry so no one trips over the pile that grew during the week. Ten minutes on kitchen surfaces so cooking feels like a glide, not a scramble. Ten minutes in the “kid vortex”—that corner where Legos, chargers, and art projects have mysteriously joined forces. I’m not decorating; I’m deleting decision fatigue. Out of sight… out of cortisol.
Breakfast, not bravado
Thanksgiving morning begins with the urge to do everything at once. I resist the sprint by starting with a three-minute reset: one minute of box breathing (inhale 4, hold 4, exhale 4, hold 4), one minute of grounding through the senses (five things I see, four I touch, three I hear, two I smell, one I taste), one minute to micro-plan the next hour. Just the next hour. “Brine the turkey, text Auntie to bring ice.” Protein first, water in hand, shoes by the door for a quick loop outside. It’s ordinary and it works.
Delegation that builds family (and teams)
Every task that arrives now meets a simple question: Who else could do this about 70% as well? Good enough is great for us. A teen can plate rolls. A cousin who loves music can own the playlist. A guest who asked “What can I bring?” can bring chairs and trash bags. Delegation isn’t abdication; it’s how families and teams become resilient. Perfection is pricey, and the currency is your peace.
If anyone pushes back on your “no,” try this: “I’d love to, and I’m already at capacity—let’s keep it simple this year.” Or the shortest script of all: “No.” It’s a full sentence.
When the gravy breaks (and other real-life moments)
Calm is easier to keep when you decide it ahead of time. I write tiny If–Then plans on a sticky note:
If the gravy breaks, then I take five slow breaths and text my neighbor who loves fixing gravy.
If a relative wades into a hot topic, then I smile and say, “Happy to talk later—today I’m savoring.”
If I feel behind, then I do the Thankful Pause and pick one next best action.
These aren’t magic; they’re oven mitts for the mind. You don’t argue with a boiling pot; you protect your hands and move it safely.
Tammy’s balcony (worth beyond work)
One of my coaching clients (we’ll call her Tammy) is a hospitalist and solo mom who believed rest was something you earned after you did everything. She never arrived. We tried a two-week experiment: fifteen minutes on the balcony nightly—tea in hand, phone and guilt inside. Nights one to three felt itchy; her brain kept pulling her toward the to-do list. Night four, she noticed the sunset. Night seven, less snapping over homework. By week two, her list was shorter because her planning was better. Rest didn’t cost productivity; it created it.
Here’s the reframe she taped to her fridge: My worth is inherent. My productivity is a strategy, not my identity.
For those on service this holiday
If you’re working, thank you. Your pause might be thirty seconds between rooms. I use Doorway Breathing: hand to the frame, one long inhale, a longer exhale, and a quiet “Here.” I also run my Triple-B check—Brain, Belly, Bladder. Am I clear enough to think, fueled enough to be kind, comfortable enough to focus? If not, I fix what I can fix. A Call-Room Calm Kit helps: protein snack, water, tiny permission-script card, and earbuds. I even mark “TP” (Thankful Pause) next to my name on the patient list. It’s a private promise to show up whole.
At sign-out, try a single sentence of gratitude to the team: “I appreciated your catch on that med interaction.” Ordinary thanks changes the air.
A table that teaches presence
Before we eat, I like one sentence each: “Name something ordinary you’re grateful for this month.” Ordinary is the point. It keeps kids and adults honest: warm socks, a neighbor’s wave, the tech who stayed late, a clear sky after rain. Gratitude doesn’t erase difficulty; it recalibrates attention toward sufficiency so we stop hunting for the next thing and start inhabiting this one.
After dishes, I walk the block—five minutes, no podcast, no inbox. One ordinary thanks per minute. It’s astonishing how much more you feel when you stop trying to do more.
Two small shifts that change the week
From endless to-do to defined win. Each morning, I pick three wins that would make the day successful. On call days, one of them is simply “serve patients well on a 12-hour shift.” A defined win stops the finish line from sliding away.
From earning rest to using rest as fuel. You don’t wait to fill the tank after a cross-state drive. You refuel so you arrive safely. Same with you.
Scripts that keep peace without apology
“I’m choosing simple this year—store-bought pie and my best attitude.”
“Thanks for asking—my plate is full. Let’s revisit in December.”
“I need ten minutes to regroup so I can be the mom/host/doctor I want to be. Back soon.”
“I can do rolls or the centerpiece, not both. Which helps more?”
Use them as written or make them yours. They’re kindness with boundaries—exactly what good medicine and good homes require.
If you remember only one thing
Your brain will try to sell you a lie: that your worth is measured by how many boxes you check and how many roles you multitask at once. Don’t buy it. Presence—not pace—is what your people (and your patients) remember. A Thankful Pause is not time stolen from others; it’s the minute that gives them the best version of you.
I’m deeply grateful for this community of physician and executive moms—women who show up for patients, families, and more and more, for yourselves. If this plan helps, share it with a colleague heading into the holiday on fumes. One small pause can change the day. One generous boundary can save the whole week. Work less. Feel more. And let this season be something you actually live in, not just get through.
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