What are you serving the people who sit at your table?

I have been thinking about something that has become increasingly profound to me: perhaps every relationship we have is a meal we share.

People come into our lives, and in one way or another, they sit at our table.

Some stay for a short time.

Some stay for years.

Some become family.

Some become friends.

Some become teachers.

Some become lovers.

Some become colleagues.

And some people arrive simply to teach us something before they leave.

But every relationship has something else in common.

There is a menu.

There is something being offered.

There is something being received.

There is something being consumed.

And there is something being nourished.

Everyone has a menu

Every person has a menu they bring into relationships.

Some people offer kindness.

Some offer compassion.

Some offer wisdom.

Some offer laughter.

Some offer safety.

Some offer encouragement.

Some offer understanding.

Some offer patience.

Some offer love.

Others may offer criticism, judgement, manipulation, anger, resentment or indifference.

We don’t always consciously choose what is on our menu.

Much of it comes from what has been prepared inside us over many years.

Our experiences.

Our wounds.

Our beliefs.

Our values.

Our character.

Our capacity to love.

Our capacity to forgive.

Our understanding of ourselves.

The menu we offer people is often a reflection of what is happening inside us.

We don’t serve everyone the same meal

This is where it becomes even more interesting.

Think about the people in your life.

There are probably people for whom you will go to extraordinary lengths.

You will make time for them.

You will listen to them.

You will prepare something special for them.

You will remember what they like.

You will show up when they need you.

You will sit with them when life becomes difficult.

You will give them the best of yourself.

They are eating from a very different menu.

Then there are people to whom you give whatever is convenient.

A quick message.

A rushed conversation.

A little attention.

Perhaps even the emotional equivalent of fast food.

Not necessarily because they are bad people.

Perhaps simply because of the nature of the relationship.

And then there are people who are not on the menu at all.

They don’t have a seat at our table.

We don’t invite them into our lives.

And that too can be healthy.

Because not everyone belongs at our table.

Boundaries are part of the menu.

We don’t have to feed everyone.

We don’t have to accommodate everyone.

We don’t have to give everyone access to us.

But there is an important question we should ask ourselves:

What exactly are we serving?

Your menu reveals your character

Perhaps our character isn’t revealed by what we say about ourselves.

Perhaps it is revealed by what people consistently experience when they sit with us.

If I say I am compassionate, but people consistently experience judgement from me, then judgement is on my menu.

If I say I love people, but people consistently experience rejection from me, then rejection is on my menu.

If I say I care, but I am never available, then absence is on my menu.

But if people consistently experience kindness from me…

If they experience patience…

If they experience honesty…

If they experience compassion…

If they experience safety…

If they experience encouragement…

If they experience love…

Then those things are on my menu.

Our relationships become the place where our character is served.

And then I realised something even more uncomfortable

Sometimes the problem isn’t that we have the wrong people sitting at our table.

Sometimes the problem is that we have nothing to serve.

This is perhaps one of the deepest realizations in this entire idea.

Imagine walking into a restaurant.

You sit down.

You receive a menu.

But the menu is empty.

There is nothing to choose.

Nothing to order.

Nothing in the kitchen.

The restaurant may look beautiful.

The tables may be beautiful.

The chairs may be comfortable.

The surroundings may be impressive.

But there is nothing to eat.

And perhaps some of us are living like that.

We have relationships.

We have people around us.

We have conversations.

We have social media.

We have families.

We have colleagues.

But when someone genuinely needs something from the deeper part of us, there is nothing available.

No patience.

No compassion.

No forgiveness.

No understanding.

No wisdom.

No emotional presence.

No tenderness.

No love.

The menu is empty.

And perhaps an empty menu is sometimes evidence of an empty inner kitchen.

What are you carrying inside you?

This changes the question completely.

Instead of asking only:

“What are people giving me?”

we begin asking:

“What am I capable of giving?”

What do I have inside me that can nourish another human being?

Can I offer forgiveness?

Can I offer understanding?

Can I offer patience?

Can I offer another person the freedom to be imperfect?

Can I listen without immediately trying to fix?

Can I disagree without becoming cruel?

Can I love without controlling?

Can I be present when someone is hurting?

Can I celebrate someone else’s success without feeling diminished by it?

Can I sit quietly with someone who doesn’t need advice but simply needs someone beside them?

These are the things that make a menu rich.

Not money.

Not possessions.

Not status.

Not popularity.

The richness of our menu is determined by what we have developed within ourselves.

Sometimes we need to return to the kitchen

Perhaps healing is, in part, learning how to cook again.

Life can empty us.

Pain can empty us.

Disappointment can empty us.

Betrayal can empty us.

Fear can empty us.

Years of survival can empty us.

And eventually we may discover that we don’t have much left to give.

We become emotionally unavailable.

We become impatient.

We become guarded.

We become cynical.

We stop trusting.

We stop showing up.

Our menu becomes smaller and smaller.

Until eventually there is almost nothing left.

But perhaps this isn’t the end.

Perhaps it is an invitation.

Go back to the kitchen.

Learn again.

Heal again.

Love again.

Forgive again.

Become curious again.

Develop yourself again.

Fill yourself with knowledge.

Fill yourself with compassion.

Fill yourself with wisdom.

Fill yourself with life.

Because when your inner kitchen becomes full again, you have something to serve.

And then there is the other menu

There is another side to this idea.

Just as people eat from our menu, we eat from theirs.

Every person we allow close to us is serving us something.

So we should ask:

What am I eating here?

What does this relationship feed me?

Does it feed my confidence or my insecurity?

Does it feed my growth or my stagnation?

Does it feed my peace or my anxiety?

Does it feed my courage or my fear?

Does it feed connection or separation?

Does it nourish me?

Or does it slowly make me sick?

Because we become, in part, what we repeatedly consume.

And relationships are one of the things we consume every day.

Choose your table carefully

Perhaps the wisdom is not simply:

Choose your people carefully.

Perhaps it is deeper than that.

Choose your table carefully.

Choose who you allow to sit there.

Choose what you are prepared to serve.

Choose what you are willing to consume.

Choose what you are willing to tolerate.

Choose what you are willing to nourish.

And most importantly, become conscious of the menu you are creating.

Because one day someone will sit at your table.

They will experience you.

They will eat from what you have prepared.

And without saying a word, they will learn something about who you are.

So ask yourself:

What is on my menu?

What do I offer the people I love?

What do I offer the people who need me?

What do I offer people when they disappoint me?

What do I offer people when they disagree with me?

What do I offer people when they are vulnerable?

What do I offer people when they have nothing to give me in return?

And perhaps the most important question of all:

If someone had to eat only from my menu, would they be nourished?

That question stays with me.

Because perhaps our relationships are not simply about who sits at our table.

Perhaps they are about what we serve when they get there.

And perhaps the deepest work we can do in life is to make sure that when people encounter us, there is something on the menu worth eating.

Something nourishing.

Something healing.

Something honest.

Something kind.

Something that reminds them that they matter.

Because ultimately, the menu we offer the world is a reflection of what we have cultivated within ourselves.

And if there is nothing on the menu today, perhaps that isn’t a reason for shame.

Perhaps it is simply a message:

Go back to the kitchen.