There’s Always a Seat at My Table

I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like the outsider — but if you have, pull up a chair, friend. You’re in good company.

There’s this quiet sting, this invisible ache that creeps in when you walk into a room and don’t know where to sit. When conversations buzz all around you, but not with you. When you’re doing your best to fit in, but it feels like everyone else already has their people… and you’re just orbiting on the outskirts like a lonely little satellite.

Girl, I’ve lived there. I practically had a timeshare there. That space of not-enough, too-much, misunderstood, or just plain left out.

And it wasn’t just a moment—it felt like a theme song playing in the background of my life. (And trust me, it wasn’t a catchy bop; it was one of those slow, sad ones you hear when the movie character is sitting alone eating ice cream.)

I’ve never had a big friend group, either. It’s always just been a friend here and there — somehow picked up along the way, like little treasures God dropped in my path when I needed them most. So much so that when I got married, my merry band of bridesmaids were about as different as you could possibly imagine. They didn’t have much in common — except me.

And honestly, it made for some hilarious memories (and some very interesting group chats). But you know what? One of my friends actually pulled me aside during the wedding weekend and said, “I never really understood why you were friends with her… but after spending time with her during all this, I get it now. It was a privilege to see it.”

That moment stuck with me. Because I realized:

Sometimes being the outsider isn’t a curse — it’s a gift. There’s beauty in not fitting into one neat little mold. There’s something special about being the one who gathers the ones who don’t quite fit anywhere else — and reminding them they don’t have to.

Because I know what it feels like to wonder where you belong. I know what it feels like to wish someone would just scoot over and make room.

And after a while, when you feel like you don’t belong, you start to wonder if maybe you were never meant to.

But let me tell you what God, in His patient, tender voice, had to whisper to my heart — sometimes daily, sometimes hourly:

“You belong to Me.”

Psalm 68:6 says, “God sets the lonely in families…”

And for the longest time, I thought maybe that promise skipped over me. Like maybe God blinked and missed me somehow.

But slowly, tenderly, He’s been showing me something better: I don’t have to wait for someone else to make space for me — I can be the space-maker.

I can be the one who pulls up an extra chair, who smiles across the room and says, “Hey, I see you. Come sit with me.”

That’s the kind of woman I want to be.

That’s the kind of friend I’m learning to become.

Because I’ve been the girl crying in the bathroom stall after trying to squeeze into a circle that didn’t have room. I’ve been the girl who laughed a little too loud just to fill the silence. I’ve been the girl who wondered if she was always just a little bit too much to handle… or maybe not enough to notice.

And I never want another woman to feel like she has to perform, perfect, or prove herself just to be loved.

Romans 15:7 says, “Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.”That verse speaks to me every time. Because here’s the thing — Jesus didn’t wait for me to get my act together before He opened His arms.

He didn’t hold out a checklist.

He didn’t ask for references.

He just welcomed me — at my messiest, my most broken, my most unsure.

And He still does.

So now, that’s the heartbeat I want my life to echo.

In my words.

In my home.

In my blog.

And in every dream God lets me chase.

I want everything about me to say loud and clear:

“There’s room for you here.”

Because we were never meant to do life on our own. And whether you’ve been bruised by friendships, left out by circles, or you’ve just never quite found your place — hear me:

You are not too much.

You are not too late.

You are not invisible.

You are not alone.

You are wanted.

You are welcome.

You are so very loved.

I know what it feels like to be left out.

That’s why I’m intentional about making sure every woman knows she has a seat at my table — with an extra slice of cake and a big ol’ smile waiting just for her.

So if you ever find yourself standing at the edge, wondering if there’s a place for you…

Just know: there’s a chair here with your name on it.