Table for One Please

I've done it before, and I'll do it again. Heck, I am doing it!

I used to travel often — for work, for trainings, it really was a way of life.
I almost always traveled alone. In the summer Bob and Drake would go with me on trips. We’ve experienced so many beautiful parts of the country, Hawaii and Alaska are the top 2 BTW.

I was used to eating solo, flying solo, checking into hotels with just a carry-on and a full schedule — it was second nature. It didn’t start that way. I felt awkward and like a spotlight was on me. It didn’t take long, and I became a pro at it. I felt the spotlight go away and I just was.

I never blended in, and I didn’t want to.
My hair was always freshly colored — something fun, like bubblegum pink or soft lavender. I worked in the beauty industry, and I took pride in showing up polished from head to toe.
Not because I needed to be seen — but because it made me feel strong. I also had my luggage lost enough times I knew to travel ready for work. The first time I did a sales meeting in jeans and a sweatshirt did it for me. Talk about not feeling professional or looking it. I was a quick learner.

When I was doing all the solo things people noticed me, sure. But not the way they do now.
Back then, they saw a confident woman in heels with a smile and a spark.
Now, the glances are softer, slower — laced with a kind of sympathy that rests just behind the eyes.

When I used to travel, I was often a party of one — but I never felt alone. I wasn’t.
Because Bob was always there and by there, I mean he was always available, always there waiting for my call, holding down our world at home, cheering me on without ever needing credit.

I carried his love in every airport, every restaurant, every hotel hallway. He would always leave a love note in my suitcase. I literally had hundreds of them.
That love was so steady, so constant, I never felt solo — just temporarily on my own. With each journey I become stronger and more confident in being ‘alone’.

Then the other day, my old boss from my Paul Mitchell days called.
Julia is one of those women who is pretty amazing. She is the best coach, cheerleader, and I always listen to her advice. She’s pretty wise.
“How are you holding up without Bob?” she asked very genuinely.

I gave her the truth.
She didn’t let it hang long. She began her encouragement.

“You’ve always been an independent woman,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”

And I felt it.
Not just as a compliment — but as a reminder.
A nudge to remember that the woman who traveled the country alone is still here.
She just has to relearn how to be solo in a town where it feels like everyone knows her story.

That became clear the first time I went back to Pillar Rock. It was my first time I was going to sit down for dinner. Not the call in for takeout kind of thing. I was good at sneaking in and sneaking out of there.

Pillar Rock is the restaurant out at the golf course.
Bob and I used to love riding our golf cart there — just a short ride, always beautiful, always familiar.
It was our “let’s not cook” place, our “date night without the fuss” place. It also became our place of choice when our kitchen was under remodel for half a year, and we had no appliances or sink. That’s a story for another day. Anyway.
The food was always delicious, the service felt like home, and the vibe was a little like Cheers — where everybody knows your name.
And they knew ours well.

I remember sitting in the parking lot that first night I was going to go and dine in, gripping the steering wheel and thinking, You’ve done this a hundred times. But not like this. But you are going to put on your big girl pants and do this thing!

I walked in, and heads turned — not in a dramatic way, but in that quiet ripple that happens when someone walks in without their person.

A few people waved.
A table near the window offered to buy me a glass of wine.
Another friend came over and gave me a hug.
It was tender and kind, but I could feel it — no one quite knew what to do.

And to be honest, neither did I.

But I stayed.
I ordered.
I ate.
And I left feeling a little proud, a little fragile, and a little more grounded than when I’d arrived.

The next time I went, it was different.

This time, I ran into some friends. They saw me walk in, waved me over, and said, “Come sit with us!”

So I did.
And it was nice.
Was it comfortable? Eh…. I was still feeling awkward.
Was it easy? Nope, I felt like something was missing. It wasn’t something, it was someone.

Then came the third time. They say the third times a charm, right?

Another invitation. Another kind smile.

But this time, I said no thank you.
Not because I was upset.
Not because I didn’t like them or enjoy their company.
But because… I was actually okay sitting alone.

And that seemed to surprise people.

I could see it on their faces — they didn’t know what to make of it.
This woman, choosing to sit by herself… smiling… ordering her food… sipping her beverage like she’s done it before.

Because the truth is — I have.

I’ve eaten alone at restaurants in big cities and tiny towns.
I’ve done it with intention, with style, with joy.
I know how to sit at a table for one and still feel full.
I just had to remember how to do it here.
Where the memories live.
Where the chair across from me used to be filled.

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I’ve had kind people invite me to join their tables.
And I always appreciate it.
But when I say, “I’m okay,” I can see it — they’re not quite sure what to do with that.

It’s uncomfortable to watch someone do alone what we’re taught should be shared.
It’s even harder to watch someone doing it well.

But here’s what I want people to know:

I’m not sitting there because I have no one.
I’m sitting there because I’ve chosen to show up.
And because I’m learning how to feel whole in the spaces that used to hold two.

So, if you see me out there —
At a table for one, a movie by myself, a community event without a plus-one —
Don’t worry.
You don’t need to save me.
I’m not lost.
I’m not broken.
I’m not waiting for someone to rescue me from the quiet. It' doesn’t mean you can’t say hi.

Just know I’m finding a new rhythm.
A new way to be in the world.
A new way to just be.

Because being “one” doesn’t mean being less.
It doesn’t always mean lonely.
It means I get to hear my own thoughts — and occasionally argue with them out loud over dessert.
It means I don’t have to share my fries.
It means I get the window seat, the last breadstick, and the freedom to leave when I’m ready.

One is strong.
One is bold.
One still laughs out loud at the table.
One still clinks the glass.
One still remembers and still dreams.

So, if you’re out there doing the same —
Finding your footing.
Learning to be okay in your own company.
Sitting through the quiet and letting it soften you, not harden you —

Know this:

You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re not behind.
You’re not broken.

You are becoming.
You are building something beautiful and brave.

So, pull up a chair.
Eat the meal.
Take the walk.
Laugh out loud.
Watch the movie.
Live the day.

One breath at a time.
One memory at a time.
One brave, beautiful moment at a time.

And truth be told, I’m not alone. I have Jesus and He more than fills the empty chair. I know this is why I can say, Table for One Please and be ok.