Is There Room at the Table?

I approach the table; one or two people look up and smile, then go back to their tasks. I feel unwanted and unwelcome, so... 

I find an empty table and sit down alone. 

I feel lonely and unloved. 

So I am determined to join the crowd.

I approach the table. Someone says ‘hello’ and then goes back to their task. I lose my nerve when I feel unwanted and unwelcome again, so... 

I find an empty table and sit down alone.

Once again, I feel lonely and unloved, but convinced I don’t belong at the table. 

I feel lonely and unloved, but tell myself that the people sitting at the table just aren’t demonstrative and their reaction isn’t about me. 

And then I see someone else come into the room. 

Several people look up, scoot over, and pull up a chair for the new person. 

I feel stung, and see this as evidence that, at least to some degree, it IS about me. 

It is me they don’t want. 

I spend years examining myself, trying to figure out what is wrong with me,

Why don't the people at the table want me there? 

I morph and change, trying to become someone like the people at the table. 

Maybe if I’m like them, they will want me there. 

With each change, I approach the table only to experience the same reactions as before. 

Until finally, I stand up, take my chair to the table, pick a random spot, ask the people sitting there to scoot over, and sit down. 

I’m sitting at the table. I belong here. 

And I ask them to keep moving over, bring in a new chair, and watch for the next person to enter the room. 

I am determined that nobody else will walk into the room and feel unwelcome.

Being in the Arena

It took every ounce of energy I possessed to will my feet to remain planted where they were. My heart raced, my mind went blank. My fight-or-flight response compelled every cell in my body to run. 

I didn't run. I took a deep breath and continued. I stood before a room of therapists and told them about my becoming one. Words came like square pegs being forced through a round hole. I fought for every concept. My mind berated my body with the message that I was failing and there was no point in continuing. 

There are so many versions of myself that would have followed those instructions. That would have succumbed to the momentary relief of giving up. I would have believed the lie that I couldn't do it. 

But each small determination to keep going has built the muscle of standing my ground. On that day, in that classroom, when I felt a tidal wave of shame and imposter syndrome overwhelm me, I took a deep breath, weathered the storm, and, when it had passed, I felt the elation of survival. Like a gladiator who had fought a hard battle and won. 

It was my presentation that the professor compared to "being in the arena'. 

My presentation was not the best. It probably wasn't even good. But I stood my ground. I didn't give up, and that is enough for me. 

Belonging = Hospitality

What does it actually mean to belong?

I used to think it was something other people bestowed upon me. I took my cues from them. I tiptoed around, waiting for other people to give me a clue about whether I was wanted or not. Belonging = acceptance and approval of other people. Most of the time, the answer I discerned was no, or only within very narrow parameters. 

I've come to believe that true belonging comes from within. It comes from accepting myself for who I am and other people for exactly who they are. It's the root of true hospitality. 

There is no measuring stick that determines how mature, thin, or refined I have to be in order to belong. Belonging isn't a scarce resource that must be divided between us. 

I cultivate belonging when I sow seeds of grace, warmth, and generosity. Of forgiveness, faith, and hope. I lay the groundwork for belonging when I stop responding to others' cues about my seat at the table and stop giving cues to others. Except for the cues that welcome them in and lift them up.  

I've struggled my whole life with letting people in, with allowing them to see who I truly am, because I've never felt that who I am is enough or acceptable. There are likely myriad places this belief originated, but it's a false belief. 

I can't truly love and accept other people until I have truly loved and accepted myself. I learned this lesson from my maternal grandmother. She is a lovely woman, but I never felt like I measured up. My hair was never combed right or well enough, my clothes never met her standards, my body never met her standards, my laugh was offensive. She was constantly correcting me and telling me all of the ways I didn't measure up. When she started to get dementia, the true source of all of this criticism became apparent. She didn't measure up. She had a very narrow window of what was good and acceptable, and she didn't measure up. So she projected all of that rejection onto me. 

This was an aha! moment for me. I know my grandma loves me, but her voice is one of the voices that has convinced me I'm not worthy or lovable. I'm not able to feel her love or internalize it as love because her criticism has convinced me I'm not lovable. 

I want to break that cycle. I want my family and friends to feel and internalize my love. That starts with me. I have to feel and internalize my value, in order to in part value to others. 

Hospitality starts in my heart, with me. 

I Belong.

 I am two presentations away from having earned a Master's degree. 

I walked into the interview day, the day that would determine whether they admitted me to the program, shocked that I had arrived. Not surprised that the GPS had directed me correctly or that the vehicle survived the trip. I felt amazed that I, me, muah had determined to even try to get in. It didn't occur to me that they might actually let me in. 

I walked into the room and immediately felt like a muddy pig at the Queen's garden party. Within the first hour, I realized I felt confident that I didn't belong there, but the door was at the front of the room, and I wasn't willing to walk in front of everyone to leave. 

I decided in that moment to challenge myself to get through the day by focusing on the present. I wouldn't worry about the next moment or next activity. I would focus solely on the moment and activity I was currently in. 

I made it to the end of the day, and a few days later, they informed me that I was accepted into the program. 

Since that time, there have been a million moments where I felt like I didn't belong, waited for the other shoe to drop, or for someone to realize they made a mistake. So far, they haven't. 

The biggest lesson I've learned as a student of Marriage and Family Therapy isn't how to therapize people. It isn't about how the brain works or how to distill that information for clients. It isn't how to sit with grief or process emotions. 

The biggest lesson I've learned is: I belong. 

I don't always feel that or live in that truth, but I recognize it as the truth. 

I belong at the table. Even if nobody looks up when I walk in. Even if nobody invites me to sit next to them or wants to talk to me. I belong at the table. 

I belong when people leave me out. I belong when people who should love me, don't. I belong when people make plans with me, change their minds, and make plans with someone else. I belong when people's eyes glaze over because they don't care about what I'm saying. I belong when I'm alone, and in a room full of people. I belong. I always did. Always will. 

I don't have to earn it or meet a list of requirements. I belong. Even though I'm fat. Even if I'm broke. Even when I disagree. 

I belong, and that's the end of the sentence. 

Passing the Test

 My phone chimed while traffic was at a standstill. 

I glanced at the notification. It was an email with the results of the licensure exam I had taken two weeks earlier. I read the words slowly to make sure I was seeing them correctly and decided I needed to pull over to read the results. 

I exited the freeway and stopped in the parking lot of a Cane's restaurant. I took a deep breath and navigated through the logins and swipes to check my score. 

My breath caught in my throat as I read the words . . . "Congratulations!. . . " I passed. They are going to let me be a therapist. A real one, with an office. 

There have been so many times throughout this journey when I've realized I was holding my breath...waiting for the other shoe to drop, the moment when the people in charge of my program would realize that I'm not smart enough or capable enough to actually do this work. Every step of the journey that I have made it through has felt like a miracle to me. 

The words jumped off the page, and Gratitude enveloped me like a tidal wave. 

As I continued the drive to school, I thought about how all the previous versions of myself would feel about this news. 

I imagined the little girl smiling with delight, but other versions' of me not believing it. 

It feels like I was one of Sid's toys from Toy Story, and God has taken me and has been constantly restoring me to my original value and purpose. 

Abraham is one of my favorite people in the Bible. Actually, what I really love is seeing how God fathers Abraham and takes him from a person who couldn't trust God with simple things to someone who trusts God with everything. The transformation is beautiful, but the beauty is in God's work. 

I connect with that. I feel like that story is my own. My life has been a story of God fathering me, correcting me, loving me, and gently disciplining me. I'm not saying that I am at the level that Abraham reached in his later life...I still have a long way to go. But I'm feeling grateful for the journey, and I pray that I continually submit to God's leadership so that someday it will be my story too.