I dream of a table that’s full
2024 felt like the loneliest year I’ve ever lived, even though it wasn’t a year I spent alone. People came and went – so many people. It felt like my dining table had turned into a buffet table, a place where they stopped to feed their curiosity before moving on. I grew to love them, offering pieces of myself like carefully prepared dishes, but they rarely stayed long enough to sit. They left with full plates and empty promises, taking what they needed and building their own tables elsewhere.
No matter how much I laughed or how happy I seemed, the dining table stayed empty. During Friendsgiving, there were no hands passing dishes. During my birthday, no candles were lit with someone else’s breath. And Christmas? Just me, the sound of a chair being pulled back, and the weight of silence sitting across from me.
I have friends, you know – the kind who live far away but make the distance feel small with every call. When I hear their voices, I don’t feel so lonely, but when the call ends, the empty chairs still outnumber the full ones. The table remains a quiet reminder that closeness doesn’t always mean togetherness, and sometimes togetherness doesn’t mean presence.
The irony of it all is that the more I’ve healed, the more I’ve noticed the empty spaces. Healing has given me clarity, a kind of brutal honesty about who and what I need in my life. It’s made my table larger, more inviting, but it’s also made the loneliness louder when no one stays. Closure has felt like upgrading my table: I now have more space, more room to love and be loved, but also more room to feel the ache when the chairs remain empty.
And yet, I dream. I dream of a table that’s full – not with transient faces but with people who choose to stay. I dream of laughter spilling over like wine, of meals that linger into the night, of conversations that intertwine and lives that overlap. I want a table where I’m not the only one setting the plates, where love isn’t one-sided, and where no one leaves without adding something meaningful.
2025, I’m asking for more than just company – I’m asking for connection. I want this table to be a place where love is shared, where people come not to take but to give as well. Let this be the year where I stop clearing away the crumbs of temporary friendships and start building something lasting.
Healing has shown me the kind of table I want to build, and though it feels emptier now, I trust it won’t always be this way. Here’s to the dining table – waiting like I am, patient and hopeful, ready for the day it’s finally full.
