A Little More Room at the Table
The holidays hold more than one feeling
As the holidays get closer, the world seems to turn up the volume. There are plans to make, meals to organize, traditions to keep, and reminders everywhere that this is supposed to be the happiest time of the year. For some people, it is. There may be a crowded table, familiar recipes, and the people they love all in one room. For others, the season is quieter. It may bring loneliness, stress, or the feeling that everyone else has figured out how to make the holidays feel special. It can bring grief, too: a first holiday without someone we love, or a tender reminder of how much life has changed. This year may have been difficult. It may have been extraordinarily harsh. No one should have to pretend to feel joyful in order to be welcomed into the holiday spirit.
There are many kinds of firsts
A first holiday as an empty nester. A first one in a new city, or with a new love—furry family members included. A first season after a change in your health, or while you’re still working through it one appointment at a time. Some firsts feel exciting. Some arrive before we’re ready. Some hold a little of both. I’m thinking about that in my own family this year. We have a newly single parent doing their absolute best to navigate each day, and a new baby bringing a whole new kind of joy. Someone is worried about their medical care and how to manage it in retirement. Another family has taken on an extra job because money is tight. One of our kids has a few more doctor visits and follow-ups ahead as we face some uncertainty. Someone is hoping for a matching kidney donor soon. Someone is caring for their parents while raising children and providing for their own family. And someone is grieving a best friend who died suddenly. That’s a lot for one family to hold at once. I know we aren’t alone, and I don’t think our circumstances make us special. But they do remind me that most people are carrying things we may not see. I want to remember to live with grace—for the people I love, for the people around me, and for myself. We are all doing the best we can with what’s in front of us. Maybe we can make room for all of that by slowing down a bit. Taking a moment to notice where we are, and who is around us. A kind look, a wave, a hello, or a small nod can be a quiet way of saying, “I see you.” It doesn’t ask anyone to explain how they’re doing or what this season holds for them. It simply offers the dignity of being acknowledged. We’re each experiencing this life for the first time, and we’re here in it together.
Traditions can change, and we can still belong
Traditions can be comforting, but they don’t have to stay exactly the same. The table changes. People move, arrive, leave, return. Maybe a familiar recipe gets adjusted, an extra chair appears, or someone finds a quieter way to take part. We don’t have to fit ourselves into an old picture of the holidays to belong in this year’s version.
Care can travel from neighbor to neighbor
I see that kind of room in the neighbor-to-neighbor care at Lasagna Love. A lasagna chef offers what they can, and a neighbor can receive it without having to explain or prove anything. For a moment, two people who may never have met are part of the same small act of care. That’s one way connection can happen: not through a perfect gathering; through making room for each other in the lives we’re actually living. Food insecurity and other difficult seasons don’t pause for the holidays, and neither does the need for community support. But help doesn’t have to come with judgment or a long explanation. Asking for a meal is enough. Making one is one way to show up. Both are ordinary human choices, and neither tells the whole story of the person making them. There are many ways to take part in a community. You might volunteer to prepare a meal, donate to help the work reach more neighbors, or request a meal if that would make this season a little easier. And sometimes care is much smaller: a hello in the hallway, a little patience in a long line, or a moment of attention when someone seems to be having a hard day.
A little more room for one another
We don’t have to make the season perfect to make it meaningful. We can celebrate what’s joyful and be gentle with what’s tender. We can let traditions change, leave room for new beginnings, and offer each other kindness without asking anyone to earn it. Maybe that’s enough for today: a little more room at the table, in the conversation, and in the way we meet one another.
Until next time,
