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. 

Processing Friendship: I Forget to Respond to Texts

To begin reading this series at the beginning, click here.

To read the previous installment in this series, click here. 

 I frequently think about someone, decide to text them to check-in and then realize that they texted me days ago and I never responded. 

I feel terrible. Most of my friends are super gracious about it, but I think the issue I have with texting back probably contributes to my feeling alone. 

I love feeling connected. I love having people to laugh with, have deep conversations with, and support. 

But I have largely learned to live my life alone. I'm used to just being on my own. It's been that way my whole life. I remember my mom telling other people when I was little, how I would just play alone in my room and she hardly even knew I was there. While I was in my room playing alone, I was pretending to have relationships. 

I'm starting to realize that my family - my husband and kids - has largely operated the same way. We keep to ourselves, in the same way I keep to myself. I didn't realize I was creating a caccoon for myself, but I was. I thought that if I could parent in the right way, that I could raise a tribe for myself. I could have the kind of relationships that I crave, with my kids once they were grown.

Somewhere along the way I realized that that mentality was not healthy, and being my kids primary source of relationship was not healthy for them. I realized that I want them to develop other relationships and go out into the world so that when I'm gone, they won't be lonely. 

There is grief in letting go of that dream. For several years, I had focused on that as my only hope for the kind of relationships I crave. 

 I've let go of that dream and I'm left back at square one trying to figure out what is wrong with me and why I can't seem to form the kind of friendships I long for. 

I want the relationships but I don't have the mechanisms within myself to form them. I think it's a combination of different things: 

1. The belief that the only way people will accept me is if I take up as little space in their life as possible. This involves a lot of hiding myself and staying quiet, and telling myself that people don't want to hear from me. 

2. Fear that if I allow myself to be seen, I will be rejected. 

3. The assumption that I am not likeable that isn't cured when people tell me I am. 

 I'm not sure if these beliefs can be permanently changed. I've been trying for a long time. I don't feel like I've made progress. When I make progress, something happens to derail it, and I don't know that I am better off then I was before I made the progress. 

Examining Myself

 There are times of life that lend themselves to assessing where we are, where we've been, where we want to go and how our current routines, mindsets and trajectory support or block our goals.

My birthday is one of those times for me. I turn 44 on January 20. 

Honestly, I don't remember what my goals were when I turned 43. I'm not sure I had any beyond continuing graduate school and surviving (if the Lord was willing). 

I haven't had a lot of goals in a while because I've felt disillusioned and unsure of whether people actually change and grow. 

The last 7 years have been really hard for me, and the last year has been one of the hardest yet. Facing truths I had not previously been able to acknowledge, feeling the weight of my own shortcomings and loneliness all converged to feel like a millstone around my mental neck. 

Toward the end of 2025, I made some decisions for myself that seem to be supporting my mental health. I'm not ready to talk specifics yet (maybe not ever), but I'm feeling hopeful. 

8 years ago, I created this graphic to communicate the mission behind my goals and I think it's still the mission behind all of my goals. 

These are my goals for this year:

1. Graduate with a Master's degree in Marriage and Family Therapy.

2. Pass the test to get my Associate's license.

3. Start my career as a Marriage & Family Therapist.

4. Trust God with my identity and relationships - I will know that I am doing this by being less impacted by whether or not I am included by other people, I will initiate more within relationships, and I will be more consistent in communication. Overall, I will show up authentically in relationships and give without expecting anything in return. 

5. Designate specific spaces where my broom, mop and hairbrush belong. 

6. Take medications consistently. 

7. Be consistent with health goals. 

8. Take a vacation with Michael to celebrate our 25th anniversary. 

9. Consistently use budgeting software.

10. Be more engaged in family life. 

Processing Friendship: Labels & Hiding

To read the previous installment, click here. 

To start from the beginning, click here. 

I was around 9 years old. My mom had a daycare, and asked her ("the swimmer") to come and supervise the daycare for a bit while my mom went to an appointment. 

As my mom left, she arrived but she didn't come into the house. She made her way into our backyard where we had a pool. She got into the pool. 

I was in the house with several babies and a few toddlers. 

I remember watching her get into the pool and being confused. She was supposed to be there to take care of these kids while my mom was gone. Honestly, maybe my mom coaxed her to come by telling her that I would do the work but that, for legal purposes, there had to be an adult present. I don't know what the arrangement was. 

What I know is that 9 year old me felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. At some point a couple of the babies began crying. As I was trying to attend to the babies, the phone rang. The swimmer yelled from the pool for me to answer the phone. I didn't feel capable of answering the phone while caring for the crying babies. 

Eventually the swimmer came into the house and demanded to know why I hadn't answered the phone. I responded curtly. 

I later learned that the swimmer had told others how "snotty" I am. I'm not defending the way I spoke to her, but it's understandable that a nine-year-old trying to hold two crying babies, care for a third baby, and watch several toddlers -- might feel overwhelmed, abandoned and angry while the adult responsible for them takes a swim and yells demands from the pool.

Snotty is a label I've worn. I thought it was mine. It was applied to me frequently. Boys in my vicinity were allowed to bully, abuse and torture me, but if I responded in any way I was labeled as "snotty" or some other name to indicate I was the problem.

Throughout my life I've worn many labels. Some have been true, and some, I have come to understand, were never mine to wear. I wasn't snotty. I wasn't the problem. I was a sweet little girl who felt overwhelmed, abandoned and worthless - and sometimes acted and spoke out of those feelings. 

As I grew, I realized that if things were going to change, I had to change them (because I was the problem, remember?). I did this by quieting myself, by making myself smaller, by conforming myself to who my labelers thought I should be. At first, I thought I was safe out of the sight and hearing of my labelers, but eventually realized that nowhere was safe.  

It was a magnificent disappearing act. I maintained the form on the outside, but all of the beautiful, colorful and spirited parts of me receded into the darkest recesses of my body. What was left was a shell, a form, an ogre whose purpose was to keep me safe, but ultimately held me prisoner. 

Processing Friendship: Examining My Part

To read the previous installment in this series, click here. 

I had a boyfriend when I met my husband. My boyfriend was not present when we met, and it didn't occur to me to disclose to this new young man that I had a boyfriend. I wasn't trying to be dishonest, but it didn't naturally come up in conversation and I had no idea that Michael liked me as anything other than a friend. 

Michael discovered that I had a boyfriend when he told his friend (my boyfriend) about meeting me, and my boyfriend made the revelation.

I was shocked every time I found out that a boy liked me, because I tend to assume people don't. To varying levels, I dreaded having to interact with the boys I dated because I was terrified that they were going to discover that I wasn't worth dating. 

It generally does not occur to me that someone would want to talk to me or that my presence or viewpoint might be valuable. I assume that I will be in the way or a nuisance. I see myself as weird. As a preteen and teen, I liked weird things. I was a hipster about 10 years before being one was cool. I liked music that other people my age thought was weird. I enjoyed movies and books that nobody else I knew was watching and reading. I never liked cartoons. 

In the absence of relationships, I attached myself to celebrities/historical figures (Princess Diana, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Elvis Presley, the Beatles) and music. I didn't have the resources to wear clothes I felt good in. I wore what was available to me, and my clothes were not reflective of current styles. I didn't wear pants so I stuck out at school. All of this labeled me as weird in my own mind. I always felt "other" at home too. Generally speaking, it didn't feel as though anyone had ever really liked me. 

As I realized that the manipulative tactics I had grown up using were not effective, I switched tactics. Eventually, I settled on staying out of people's way. I take up as little space in people's lives as I can. I don't insert myself into other people's lives. I stay in the shadows, hoping to be invited in. I process the non-invitations as rejection.

I don't call people because I assume it would bother them if I did. I don't invite people over, because I assume they would rather not come. I don't start conversations because I assume people would rather be talking to someone else. 

I take up as little mental space as possible, and my body takes up a lot more space than it should. The irony is not lost on me. I believe these two issues are related. 

A few years ago I was diagnosed with ADHD. This revelation was like a light switch being turned on for me. It turns out, a lot of people with ADHD also have something called Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (Shout out to my friend Kim for bringing this to my attention.) What this looks like for me is constantly being on the look out for signs that I am being rejected and then responding with intense pain when I find them. 

So cliques at church feel like big, flashing signs that say "stay out, loser!!" Pictures on social media of other people I know hanging out with each other feels like someone saying "we didn't invite you because we hate you!"

Healing my relationship with friendship, and myself, is going to look like being able to take up space in people's lives and in rooms I am in, and telling myself the truth when I believe the lies that my brain is telling me. 

I can't control other people. I can't make them include me or enjoy my company. I am the only person I can control, and truthfully, more than anyone else has excluded me, I think I've excluded myself. 

To be continued . . . 

 

Processing Friendship Part 2

 To read Part 1, click here.

As we moved within California and then to Texas, and I encountered new systems, I had different experiences. At the first place, I found a stockpile of greeting cards in the church building. So I  documented all the church members birthdays and anniversaries, and used the greeting cards to acknowledge them. I loved doing this. It gave me a great sense of purpose. 

When we moved to Texas, it was like moving to an all new world where people suddenly took an interest in me. I seemed to matter for the first time. When we first arrived, members of the congregation asked me questions like, "what are your hobbies?" I had no answer to this question. What I liked to do had never seemed relevant to anyone else, and most of what I enjoyed doing wasn't something I could really do with other people. I lived a mostly solitary, internal life. Existing at this congregation and within that group of people was a breeding ground for my self-esteem.  

I had a friend group for the first time. I was talking on the phone, spending time with people. I was outgoing and extroverted. I felt like my true self. 

In both of these instances, it seems the growth of my self confidence and security was interpreted in a negative light, and I was punished.

My training in systems theory and work with my own therapist has helped me to see that the system in which I existed would not allow for me to change. The thing about systems is that they work to maintain homeostasis. The quiet, solitary, internal, blank slate was the role I played in the system, and it's all that system would allow for. 

I withdrew from my social circle. The focus shifted from friendship and connection, to escaping the system. I did desperate and wrong things to accomplish this, and I lost sight of the purpose of leaving the system. The things I did to escape were counterproductive and harmful. 

I didn't get what I ultimately wanted: the space to be the truest version of myself. What I got was shame, isolation, regret and body weight. 

I've spent a lot of time and energy in healing from all of that, but I still find myself with loneliness, and unsure of how to overcome it. Talking about it is helping. Friends who have experienced similar things are sharing what they've learned, and that solves the issue of protocols to implement, and the connection I have longed for. 

To be continued . . . 

Processing Friendship

Sifting through my soul, trying to make it all make sense. Am I the cause of my loneliness? What is it about me that makes it difficult for me to connect? I have always felt "other". Like I'm on the outside looking in at the connections of others. The first time I remember feeling this, I was approximately 4 years old. 

I struggle with accepting that God loves me and forgives me, and that makes it difficult to believe that other people can and do. I've done a lot of sucky things to get people to like me. I acted in impulsive and hurtful ways that still haunt me. 

Around four I had an experience with overt rejection that I remember vividly. Another little girl and I were playing on the steps of the church. A group of older girls (I'm thinking they were 11 or 12) came along and made it a point to tell me to shut up and be very attentive to my friend. They called me stupid and pushed me away and told me that they couldn't stand me, while embracing the other girl. They were overtly rejecting me, while embracing her.

I can't remember if I did something to trigger this. I don't have a lot of other memories from this age. I don't remember having mean thoughts about people or scheming to do bad things. Most of the things I did were impulsive and I didn't take into consideration how my actions would impact others. I remember dropping a booster seat on another kids head as a joke, and then being mortified that it was a much bigger deal than I anticipated. I also made up lies about other people liking me in order to impress people. 

By 11 or 12 I had caught on that my actions weren't working and I shut completely down. I lost hope. It felt, and sometimes still feels, like a mental straightjacket. 

Recently I've been thinking through relationships over my lifetime. I've realized that even most of the people I might have considered to be my friends before the age of 15 - weren't really my friends. They didn't like me. They were annoyed by the things I did to get people to like to me. Which is understandable. 

Once, one of these "friends" read a letter, that they had received from another of my "friends", aloud to me. The person who had written the letter spent part of it talking negatively about me and how a boy had said that they would never "go out" with someone "like" me. I don't know what "someone like her" meant because I never asked. Even when she was reading it to me, I remember my face getting hot but I didn't even acknowledge what had been said about me. I don't know if the intent of reading the letter to me was to hurt me or to reveal how they all felt about me. I essentially proceeded as though it didn't happen. Looking back, it was obvious that these people were not really my friends. 

Right now I'm processing what this means. Does it mean that I was more flawed than everyone else and my actions made it impossible for me to have real connections? If so, was I born that way? What does that mean?

Was my immature and impulsive behavior what caused people to dislike me? Or did their dislike of me cause the immature and impulsive behavior? 

My instinct is to say that for whatever reason I had a deep, felt sense that I was unlovable, and this led to maladaptive behaviors that were hurtful and unlikeable by others and it all became a cycle that I struggled to exist outside of. Even though I completely stopped (but re-picked back up a few years later) the bad habits I had, I didn't know how to make amends and the relationships never changed. 

When I was 13, my family began considering a cross country move. I remember feeling excited to have a fresh start. Getting outside of the systems in which I had always existed seemed like a positive thing. 

In both of the new environments, I took advantage of the fresh starts and thrived . . . for a while.

To be continued . . .