I’ve always wanted
a seat at that table.
You know the one.
Where stories are swapped like secrets, where opinions
stretch beyond the polite, and where lives quietly change
between bites of something warm and homemade.
For years, I thought you had to be invited to that kind of
table.
That someone with more letters behind their name or
more followers or louder credentials had to pull out a
chair for you and say, “You belong here.”
But they didn’t. And they don’t.
So I built my own.
Deep Dish
The first time I sat with a group of women and asked—
not what they did, but what they had lived—something
cracked open in the room. We weren’t there to pitch, sell,
or posture. We were there to remember. Our resilience.
Our purpose. Our stories.
Sit next to anyone and simply ask: “What’s made you who
you are right now?” and watch the stories tumble on The
Table.
That’s what The Table of Stories became. Not a literal table
(though there’s often tea or a glass of wine involved), but
a sacred, unpolished space to tell the truth.
Not the polished LinkedIn version. Not the brand story.
The real one.
The one with the messy chapters, the plot twists, the
almost-gave-up moment.
I’ve watched women return to themselves mid-sentence.
I’ve heard silence fall like reverence after a single sentence
cracked the room open.
I’ve seen people weep not because the story was sad but
because it was familiar.
And I’ve seen others sit straighter afterward, like someone
finally handed them the mirror they’d been missing.