Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Dining Alone: Finding Peace in the Empty Chair | Still Standing
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of silence that happens when you sit down at a table for one, and it isn’t quiet—it’s loud with everything you haven’t said to anyone all day. I want you to picture it. It’s Tuesday night. Maybe it’s Wednesday. The clock has just struck seven, and your stomach gives that small, urgent tug that says dinner time. You pull on your shoes, or maybe you’re still in your work clothes, and you walk into that restaurant—the one with the warm lighting and the smell of garlic bread that used to make your heart race with anticipation. Now, it just makes you pause. You scan the room. There are couples leaning in close, whispering secrets over wine. There are groups of friends laughing so hard their shoulders shake. And there is this one small, two-top near the window, perfectly empty, waiting for you. You take that seat. You put your phone face down. You order. And then, the silence settles in. For some of us, that silence feels like a verdict. It feels like the world has looked around, noticed we are alone, and decided we must be lonely. I’ve been there. I remember sitting in my apartment after my divorce, eating soup directly from the pot because I didn’t have the energy to set a table, feeling a profound sense of failure for not having someone to tell about the day. Like my life was incomplete because no one else was breathing in the same room as me. We live in a culture that treats dining alone as a temporary emergency, a glitch in the matrix of adult life that needs to be fixed ASAP. We apologize for it. Oh, sorry, I’m eating by myself! Sorry, I don’t have a date tonight! As if solitude is something to be ashamed of, rather than a space to be inhabited. But here is what I’ve learned, Marissa speaking from my own messy journey: that apology is the first thing that needs to go. Because when we apologize for taking up space, we reinforce the idea that we shouldn’t be there. We shrink ourselves into the corners of our own lives. Think about how much energy we spend trying to curate our social presence. We worry about who sees us, who approves, who thinks we’re having fun. When you eat alone, that performance ends. You stop performing happiness for an audience. You stop checking your reflection in the spoon to see if you look okay. You are just… present. And that presence can be terrifying at first, right? Because without the distraction of conversation, you have to listen to yourself. You have to hear your own thoughts. And sometimes, those thoughts are heavy. Sometimes, they are quiet. But they are yours. There is a difference, and it is a massive one, between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is the pain of being alone. Solitude is the glory of being alone. One is a void; the other is a vessel. When I started forcing myself to dine alone—starting with just coffee, then a quick lunch, then actual dinners—I wasn’t trying to punish myself. I was trying to reclaim my company. I wanted to know who I was when I wasn’t reacting to someone else’s mood, someone else’s story, someone else’s need. Take a breath with me. Feel the weight of that intention. It’s not about rejecting connection. It’s about building a relationship with yourself that doesn’t depend on external validation. When you sit across from an empty chair, you are essentially sitting across from yourself. And what does that self need? Does she need judgment? Or does she need kindness? I found that the empty chair became a mirror. If I was stressed, I saw it. If I was proud of something small, I could celebrate it without waiting for someone else to raise a glass. It was a practice in self-witnessing, similar to what we talked about regarding strangers’ pain, but turned inward. I am learning to witness my own hunger, my own fatigue, my own joy, without needing a translator. Let’s talk about the practical side of this, because resilience isn’t just a mindset; it’s a habit. How do we make this sustainable? It starts with the ritual. When I go out to eat alone now, I bring a book. Not my phone. A real, physical book. It gives my hands something to do and my mind something gentle to hold. I order the dish I actually want, not the dish I think looks good for photos. I take my time. I notice the texture of the food, the sound of the rain against the window, the way the light hits the salt shaker. This is where the magic happens. This is where we rebuild trust with ourselves, piece by piece, just like we discussed in that earlier episode about rebuilding trust after a mistake. Every time you choose to stay in your own company instead of fleeing back to the noise, you are telling your nervous system: ‘It is safe here. You are safe here.’ That is a powerful message. It rewires the brain’s default setting from ‘alert, alert, seek connection’ to ‘rest, restore, be.’ It’s slow work. It’s quiet work. But it is the foundation of everything else. I want to challenge you to look at your own narrative around this. What did that cost you? The cost of avoiding meals alone has been high. It’s been missed moments of peace. It’s been relying on others to validate your existence. It’s been feeling guilty for wanting space. Imagine the freedom of flipping that script. Imagine walking into a restaurant and thinking, ‘I am here to enjoy my evening,’ not ‘I hope no one notices I’m solo.’ When you change the story, the experience changes. The waiter stops seeing a ‘lone wolf’ and starts seeing a customer who knows what she wants. The other diners stop staring and start focusing on their own lives. You become invisible in the best possible way—you become free. Free to laugh at a joke in your head. Free to cry if you need to, without explanation. Free to simply exist in your body, fully and completely. This is resilience. It’s not bouncing back. It’s settling in. It’s realizing that you are enough to keep yourself company. So, where do we start? We don’t need to plan a week of solo dinners to prove a point. We just need one moment. One meal. One hour. Try this: next time you’re hungry, and you have the option to cook with someone, or meet up, or scroll through apps looking for company—pause. Ask yourself: ‘Do I want connection, or do I want rest?’ If it’s rest, honor that. Go get that bowl of pasta. Sit in that booth. Breathe. And if it feels scary? Good. That means you’re growing. Growth often feels like discomfort before it feels like relief. Let’s sit in that for a second. The discomfort is just the old fear saying goodbye. The relief is the new truth saying hello. You are learning that you are not broken because you are alone. You are whole because you are here. And that wholeness is portable. It goes with you to every table, every meeting, every morning. It is yours. Thank you for sitting with me today. Thank you for choosing yourself, even in the small ways. I’ll see you next time. Take care of that beautiful, resilient heart of yours.