a full table, and all the feelings it brought up

This morning I hosted Easter brunch for fifteen people. The table was full, the kitchen was busy, there were dishes everywhere and food kept coming — sourdough, focaccia, little sandwiches, coffee, everything a bit imperfect but warm and shared.

After everyone left, I sat down in the quiet and felt that mix of exhaustion and fullness — the kind that isn’t just about food, but about something deeper. A full house, a full heart, and then the stillness after.

And it made me think about something I hadn’t expected.

the girl who would have felt embarrassed

There was a time when a version of this — the effort, the enthusiasm, the wanting to host something a little elaborate — would have made me feel self-conscious.

Too much. Too eager. A little… weird.

I can still remember moments from high school where that word was said with intention. You’re weird. Not playful, not curious — cutting. Designed to make you feel small, like you should pull back whatever part of yourself had just shown up too fully.

And I did pull back.

learning to quiet yourself

Like most people, I adjusted. I tried to smooth things out, to fit into what I thought things were supposed to look like. I think I expected those years — high school, university — to feel easy and effortless, like some version of a movie.

And when they didn’t, I assumed I was doing it wrong.

So I ignored the quieter voice in me that already knew what I liked. The part that would have happily stayed home baking, reading, hosting small gatherings, caring deeply about things that didn’t always translate socially.

coming back to it anyway

And yet, here I am.

In my 40s, spending an entire weekend planning an Easter brunch, making too much food, caring about the details, enjoying every part of it — and not once stopping to wonder if it’s too much.

Because it isn’t. It’s just me.

the freedom no one tells you about

The most surprising part is this: no one is standing around calling you weird anymore.

Not because you’ve changed, but because everyone else is busy. In their own heads, their own lives, their own insecurities. That spotlight you felt so intensely when you were younger? It fades.

what i wish i could say to her

If I could sit across from my younger self, I’d tell her this:

You were never the problem.

The things that made you feel different — the way you cared, the things you were drawn to, the way you found joy — those weren’t flaws.

You don’t need to soften them. You don’t need to hide them. You don’t need to wait until you’re older to live that way.

nothing heals like coming home to yourself

There’s a kind of healing that happens when you come back to the things you loved before you started questioning them.

The quiet hobbies, the excitement over small things, the way you naturally wanted to spend your time.

That version of you knew exactly what they were doing.

forget normal

I don’t know what “normal” is supposed to mean anymore, and I don’t really care.

What I do know is that today, standing in my kitchen surrounded by dishes and leftover bread and the feeling of a day well spent, I felt completely like myself.

And that feels better than fitting in ever did.

So if you’re younger — live your truth now.

And if you’re older, or somewhere in between, it’s not too late to come back to yourself.

There’s a lot of joy waiting there.