The Tables I Built When No One Left Me a Seat
I didn’t just feel left out—I was left out. So I built spaces of my own. Not out of bitterness, but out of boldness. And I’ve been making room for others ever since.
They say, "If no one invites you to the table, build your own." And I say it too. But like most things people say on the internet, it's a little too neat for something this layered.
Because what happens when the table you want doesn’t exist? Or worse—when it does, but they make sure there's no seat for you? That’s why I build. And I think maybe you should, too.
Lately, I’ve realized I don’t just have a table—I have tables. Plural. Each one serves a different need, a different part of me.
I have my restaurant table: the one I share with my longtime friends. We laugh, eat, talk about absolutely nothing and occasionally something deep. We check in with each other every day, meet every few months, and remind each other what ease feels like. They’re not writers or advocates or entrepreneurs—but they’re mine. They feed my soul in other ways.
Then I have my writing table. That one’s covered in pens, sticky notes, notebooks, laptops, spilled coffee, and the occasional breakdown. I meet these people in writing groups, conferences, random online spaces. We share drafts, rejections, breakthroughs. That table keeps me creatively sane.
There’s my entrepreneur table. That one's a sleek conference table with water pitchers, coffee trays, maybe a whiteboard. We talk goals, strategies, launches, pivots. It’s where I speak the language of risk and ambition without having to translate myself.
I have my disability community table. That one is designed for accessibility, flexibility, empathy. It exists in group chats and Zoom rooms, in online threads and shared resources. It includes subscribers of AudacityMagazine.com—people who believe in advocacy, visibility, and community on our terms. Everyone’s needs are considered. No one has to shrink or contort to fit in. We laugh, we vent, we celebrate. That table is sacred.
So yes, I’ve built my tables. And I keep building. Because the ones I wanted didn’t make space—and I wasn’t about to keep waiting outside the room like I didn’t belong in it.
Sometimes I wonder: was I not loud enough? Not agreeable enough? Maybe I was too much—or maybe I simply wasn't what they expected. But I know now, it’s not about being less or more. It’s not about worth. I’m already worthy. Maybe they didn’t want to make space, or maybe they feared what would happen if I had it.
Still, I build. I create what I wish someone else had offered. I set plates and make space—without making anyone feel like a second choice.
And I know I’m not the only one doing this. I see others carving out room, shaping community, redefining what inclusion looks like in real time. We’re not just making space—we’re modeling it.
And every now and then, I move from one table to another—because I know now that I’m allowed to have more than one. I’m allowed to be more than one.
So if you’re waiting for a seat, build your own table—but don’t stop there. Build tables. Plural. Just make sure you’re not the one locking the chairs behind you.
Not every guest will look the way you expected—and that’s the point. Some people will surprise you. Some will bring laughter, perspective, or questions that make everything richer.
We build these tables because we know what it feels like to be left out. So it matters—deeply—how we treat others when we become the hosts. Inclusion doesn’t stop at the guest list.
Be the kind of host who makes people feel like they belong. When they feel good at your table, you will too. If you’re building your own table—or many—make space for surprise guests. Don’t be afraid to be the first to say, "Come in."
And if you haven’t found your people yet? Maybe we’re already waiting for you. My disability community table is open. You’re welcome to pull up a chair. Subscribe to AudacityMagazine.com and join a table where everyone’s voice matters.
So—what kind of table are you building?