The Table Is Still Set

There was a time I always reached out.

I’d send the texts. I’d make the plans.
I’d organize the night, the food, the music.
I’d set the table.

Because that’s how I showed I cared.
That was my version of love—offering space. Connection.
Making people feel like they belonged, even if I didn’t always feel like I did.

But life changes you.
Years go by, and you start to notice who shows up—and who doesn’t.
And it gets heavy, waiting at the table alone.

So eventually, I stopped setting it.
Not in anger. Not in spite.
But out of understanding.

I still keep the plates ready, the forks and napkins stacked.
The table’s not gone—it’s just not set every night anymore.
It’s there when someone’s ready.
And when they are, I’ll welcome them with a smile that says,
"I’m glad you came."

You see, I was raised in silence.
Raised in the dark.
Emotionally detached and taught to swallow everything too tender to survive the cold.
Affection was a language I had to learn as an adult.
Not having it wasn’t anyone’s fault—but it left a scar I had to name before I could start healing.

Now, I understand:
The way I was raised doesn’t get to define how I love others—but it also isn’t their burden to carry.
So I love differently.
Quieter, maybe.
But with just as much depth.

I don’t send the invites like I used to.
But my door is never closed.
The lights are still on.
The table is still there.

And if you ever come by,
You’ll find your place has been waiting for you the whole time.