I cooked the food. Arranged the flowers. Made the playlist. Set the table. Created a whole little world for women to walk into.
And somehow, I was not present in it.
I was there physically, of course. Moving from the kitchen to the dining room. Checking the food. Refilling something. Answering a question. Making sure everybody had what they needed.
But I was not there.
There is a difference between hosting a room and being present in one. I am learning that in real time.
When I think about supper at my grandma’s house—or hell, even at my mama’s—I watched both of them cook, clean, entertain, and make sure everybody else was okay. By the end of the night, they were so exhausted they could never fully see the array of joy each person had because they did not know how to just be.
They made the moment. But did they get to live in it?
And I realized I have been doing the same thing.
A few mornings ago during my devotional, I asked myself: When was the last time you were present?
And if I am being honest, I cannot tell you.
No, seriously. I cannot tell you.
I am always thinking about the next thing. The next bill that is due. The next event. The next decision. The next person who needs something from me. The next, the next, the next.
But the last time I was fully present? I do not know.
If I am being really honest, I think it may have been during sex.
And even then, sometimes I am checked out there too.
That truth sat with me.
Girl, Go Sit Your Ass Down
Then, somewhere in that devotional, I realized: I am Martha.
I am working so much that I am not noticing Jesus is in my house.
Girl, go sit your ass down.
Because that is really what is happening. I have made being busy feel holy. I have made being needed feel like purpose. I have made exhaustion feel like proof that I am doing enough.
Meanwhile, Jesus is in the house.
The joy is in the room.
The people I prayed for are at the table.
The life I have been asking God to build is happening right in front of me.
And I am in the kitchen, worried about what is next.
Even writing this, I caught myself thinking about the content for this blog. How ironic is that? I am trying to write about being present while already figuring out how to package the lesson instead of simply sitting with it.
How did we get here?
Sunday Supper was beautiful. There was food made with love, flowers on the table, music in the room, and women gathering. It was everything I imagined it could be.
But somewhere between making sure everything was right and making sure everybody else was cared for, I slipped into survival mode.
I became the cook. The florist. The planner. The server. The cleaner.
And I forgot that I was also the host.
A host is allowed to enjoy what she created.
From All Black to Setting the Tone
For a long time, I was comfortable being the person in all black.
The one behind the scenes. The one who could move quietly through the room, fix what needed fixing, make everybody else look good, and leave without being seen. The server. The florist. The planner. The woman making the magic, but never asking to be considered part of it.
But hosting is different.
Hosting means being seen.
It means becoming the person who sets the tone and creates the voice of the room. It means people are looking to you—not just for the food, flowers, or playlist—but for permission to relax, laugh, connect, and be themselves.
That makes me uncomfortable.
Because being invisible is familiar. It is safe.
A friend of mine, Alex, said to me, “Stop hiding behind service and show your big personality.”
She did not say it exactly like that, but it sounds good, though.
And she was right.
Because service has been my hiding place. If I am busy pouring the drink, fixing the plate, arranging the flowers, or making sure everybody else feels comfortable, I do not have to let the room really see me.
But my big personality is pretty fucking dope.
The woman who laughs loud, tells the story, sets the tone, and makes people feel like they have known her forever—that woman deserves to be in the room too. Not just working it. Not just creating it.
Actually in it.
I did not build Floral & Spice to hide behind a centerpiece or stay in the kitchen all night. I built it because I have something to say. Because I have a point of view. Because I know what it feels like to need a room that sees you—and I want to create that room for other women.
So maybe this is the season I stop wearing all black, figuratively and literally.
Maybe this is the season I step into the room boldly. Loudly. Fully.
Not as someone who has to earn her seat by working herself to exhaustion, but as the woman whose presence is part of what makes the table feel like home.
I am still learning how to just be.
But I think Sunday Supper was the beginning of me noticing when I am not.
And honestly? That feels like an invitation to sit down.