Table for 1
Odette
Then, there I was, celebrating my birthday alone. I walked into this little Italian restaurant and casually said, “Table for one, please.” The host smiled and escorted me to a table that, ironically, sat four. As I waited to be served, I found myself staring at the three empty seats around me, and oh, the memories that came rushing in. I thought about family vacations with my mommy sitting on one side, my daddy on the other, and my older sister across from me. I remembered the laughter, the conversations, my dad giving me that look whenever I said or did something that wasn't exactly ladylike or maybe just a little unhinged and my sister and me exchanging secret jokes, giving each other looks only we understood, and probably staring at boys sitting nearby with their own families. For a moment, I wasn't sitting in that restaurant alone anymore; I was back at those tables with them, surrounded by the noise and familiarity I once thought would always be there. It's funny how the ordinary moments become the ones you miss the most when life changes. What was once my reality had somehow become a memory, and sitting there, I couldn't help but think, if only I knew the last time would be the last time. Maybe I would've stayed at the table a little longer, laughed a little louder, or simply paid more attention. But I guess that's the thing about a full table you don't necessarily appreciate it when you've never experienced empty chairs.
It’s sad, you know, watching how my family dynamic has changed over the years watching how everyone has changed. It didn’t happen overnight. There wasn’t one big moment where everything suddenly fell apart; it was more like life slowly rearranged the seating chart. One chair became empty, and somehow the entire table began to feel different. People leave, relationships change, loss happens, and maybe somewhere along the way, there’s even a little betrayal. Before you know it, you’re not only grieving people you’re grieving the version of your family that existed during a particular season. And even though I understand that change is a natural part of life, understanding it doesn’t mean I don’t miss what used to be. There are moments when I would give almost anything to sit at that old table just one more time, even if only for a little while.
But eventually, you have to accept that the table you grew up sitting at simply doesn’t exist in the same way anymore. Some chairs cannot be replaced. Some empty chairs shouldn’t be rushed to be filled, and some things, no matter how badly we wish otherwise, simply cannot return to what they once were. Maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of growing up; realizing that home can still be home while no longer feeling exactly like the home you remember. Sometimes the place where you’re supposed to find the most peace becomes the very place where peace feels the hardest to find. Yet somehow, you still call it home. And maybe that’s another kind of grief in itself: having somewhere to go home to while quietly missing the feeling of being at home.
Somewhere between grieving the table I once knew, missing the home I remember, and staring at all those empty chairs, I realized something else: I’m still sitting here. My life is still happening, even if it looks nothing like I once imagined it would. The table may have changed, the people may have changed, and perhaps I have changed too. But there is still a life in front of me waiting to be lived. So, what do you do when the table that once seated four suddenly starts to feel like a reservation for one?
For the most part, I actually enjoy my own company. But if I’m being honest, it was uncomfortable at first. A table for one can look lonely, and sometimes,…it genuinely is lonely. There’s nobody sitting across from you to talk to, make random jokes with, people-watch with, or even pretend to be Lady Whistledown while silently creating an entire storyline about the strangers sitting two tables over. And listen, I love my independence, but I don’t always want to be Miss Independent. Sometimes I do want the company of some humans, and I say some very intentionally. I like having people around who get to experience the dark humor, the random thoughts, the soft parts of me, the spiritual side, and, of course, the slightly unhinged side that tends to make an appearance every now and again. Because as much as I’m learning to enjoy the seat I’m sitting in, sometimes you still wish there was someone sitting across from you who just…gets it.
And that’s the thing right there…I can enjoy my own company and still admit that sometimes I want someone sitting across from me. Both can be true. Somewhere along the way, society mastered this idea (which I think is….) that if you’re alone, you must be lonely, and I’ve learned that simply isn’t the case. I can look completely alone and be sitting there with more comfort and peace than someone surrounded by an entire room of people. Because being surrounded doesn’t always mean being connected. A full table doesn’t automatically mean you are loved, cherished, appreciated, or even seen. And an empty table doesn’t automatically mean you’re depressed, sad, or lonely. Sometimes those empty chairs represent something completely different. Sometimes they mean boundaries. Sometimes they mean healing. Sometimes they mean you finally stopped allowing just anybody to pull up a chair simply because you were afraid of sitting alone. And listen, sometimes peace really does look like empty chairs, good food & drinks, and absolutely NO drama.
Eventually, I had to stop staring at the empty chairs and actually pay attention to the person who was still sitting there, which is me, of course! And I think I've gotten pretty good at enjoying her company. I go places alone, eat alone, celebrate myself (failing at times), explore, and sometimes I just sit there and enjoy the silence. Don't get me wrong, there are still moments when I wish I had someone with me, but I'm also learning that I can't keep putting my life on hold waiting for people to be available. How many things do we miss because we're waiting on a friend, waiting on a relationship, waiting for somebody to say “I'll come,” or just waiting for life to look a certain way? Bloomers, everybody has their own lives to live too. So if I want to go, I'm going. If I want the pasta, I'm ordering the pasta. If I want to celebrate something, I'm celebrating it. Life is already short enough. I refuse to spend mine sitting in the waiting area because nobody else showed up for the reservation.
And maybe being alone for a season isn't this horrible thing we sometimes make it out to be. Maybe there are things God can show you in the quiet that you simply couldn't hear when everything around you was loud. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” And I'm slowly learning to let a season be exactly what it is without trying to rush God into the next one. Maybe I needed some quiet. Maybe I needed to learn myself again. Maybe I needed to figure out what I actually like, what brings me peace, what I no longer want around me, and who I am when I'm not constantly adjusting myself for everybody else. And who knows? Maybe some of those empty chairs I keep looking at aren't empty because God forgot about me. Maybe He just hasn't given everybody permission to sit there.
Which brings me to something else I've had to learn: stop begging for a seat at tables where you don't even feel comfortable sitting. Whew. Because why am I fighting to be included somewhere and then getting there only to feel like I have to shrink myself, watch everything I say, or question whether I'm actually wanted? No Sir! . At some point, the question stopped being “Who's going to sit with me?” or “Where can I find a seat?” and became “What kind of table am I creating?” I want mine to have God, love, laughter, honesty, accountability, genuine people and PEACE. Heavy on the peace. Confusion, manipulation, disrespect, one-sided relationships and unnecessary drama? We don't serve that here. And that's not me saying I'm better than anybody either, because sometimes I'm the problem at the table too, and God has to deal with me accordingly. I'm simply learning that I can love people and still have boundaries. Everybody doesn't need unlimited access to me, and every empty chair doesn't need to be filled. I can build the table, but God gets the head seat & quite frankly, He can handle the guest list too.
If this season has taught me anything, it's that I need to stop looking at empty chairs as proof that something is missing from my life. Sometimes an empty chair is just an empty chair. Sometimes it's grief (which it has been for a few months). Sometimes it's a boundary. Sometimes it's protection. And sometimes it's simply not time yet. I don't believe Table for 1 means table for one forever, and truthfully, I don't want it to. I still want love, friendships, family, community and all the beautiful things God has for me. I'm just learning that I don't have to rush to put somebody in every seat. I'd rather have the right people at my table than a full table.
Listen, I started this reflection talking about a table that once sat four, and somehow I've ended up here: learning how to be okay with a table for one. And truthfully, I don't think I'll ever stop missing certain versions of that table. I'll probably always miss some of the people, the memories, the laughter, and even the chaos that once filled those chairs. Healing doesn't mean pretending you don't miss what used to be. I think it just means learning that you can miss it without spending the rest of your life trying to recreate it. That birthday dinner reminded me that while I was sitting there thinking about everyone who wasn't at the table, I almost overlooked the fact that I was. I was still there. Still living. Still laughing. Still becoming. Still loved by God. And maybe that's what this season is really about…not desperately trying to fill the empty chairs, but learning to appreciate the woman who is still sitting at the table.
Bloomers, please don't put your life on hold because your table doesn't look the way you thought it would by now. Maybe your empty chair represents someone you lost. Maybe it's a friendship that ended, a relationship you thought would last, a family that doesn't feel the way it used to, or maybe you're simply in a season where God has made things a little quieter. Whatever it is, don't confuse an empty seat with an empty life. Go. Eat the food. Take the trip. Celebrate the birthday. Buy yourself the flowers. Laugh loudly. Pray. Heal. Make new memories. And please, don't start pulling random people into seats just because you're uncomfortable seeing them empty. Everybody who can sit at your table doesn't deserve to stay at your table. Ask God for discernment, protect your peace, check yourself when necessary, and trust that when it's time for the right people to pull up a chair, you won't have to sacrifice who you are just to keep them seated.
I came from a table of four. I found myself at a table for one. And now, I'm learning how to build a table of my own. I don't know exactly who God will eventually place around it, and for once, I don't need to know (still curious though).
Because until then...
“The reservation is under my name, so I might as well order dessert too (Cheesecake). Oh sorry! and of course... for now, that’s enough.”