I’ve realized that as I’ve grown older, the seats around my table have steadily emptied. What once was a bustling space, full of shared laughter, conversations, and the comforting presence of friends, now feels like a quiet, lonely corner. People came and went, treating my table as a temporary stop — a passing station rather than a place to linger, connect, and share in the genuine moments of life. My table, once a symbol of connection, became more like a waiting room, a place where people paused before moving on to something or someone else.
I’ve learned the hard way that I cannot make people stay. I can’t force them to remain seated, to invest in the moments that matter, or to appreciate the significance of being present. People will come and go as they please; I have no power over their choices or their intentions. But what I do have power over is who I allow to sit down in the first place. I can be selective, discerning about who I let into my space, and who gets the privilege of sharing my time, my thoughts, and my energy.
It might seem harsh to turn someone away, to deny them a seat at my table, but I’ve come to understand that it’s not cruelty — it’s self-preservation. I’ve grown tired of half-hearted company, of those who come only when it’s convenient, who leave as soon as the meal gets cold or the conversation turns too real.
Protecting your peace might be lonelier but the ride will be a lot smoother.
