There’s a cost to access me—and I don’t mean that in an arrogant way. I mean it in a boundaries are a love language way.
My table is sacred. Who I let sit with me matters. Because if I’m inviting you in, I’m pouring into you—celebrating your wins, supporting you in your losses, and showing up with all the love and care I have to give.
But here’s the thing: not everyone deserves that kind of access. Some people want the feast but disappear during the famine. They show up when everything looks good but are nowhere to be found when it’s time to do the work.
I used to let those people in. I’d contort myself, shrink myself, make myself easy to digest, all so they wouldn’t feel threatened by who I am. I’d give and give, only to be left empty.
Not anymore.
If you can’t celebrate me in the same way I celebrate you, you don’t get a seat at my table. If you can’t show up with integrity and care, you don’t get a seat at my table. If my light makes you uncomfortable because you haven’t found your own, you don’t get a seat at my table.
And that’s okay. Not everyone is meant to sit here. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea—and that’s a gift, not a problem.
Here’s what I know for sure: there’s nothing wrong with requiring more. There’s nothing wrong with wanting deep, nourishing, reciprocal relationships.
We don’t have to let just anyone in. We get to be intentional. We get to protect our peace. We get to decide who gets the privilege of being in our lives.
So, yes—there’s a cost to access me. And it’s a cost worth paying. Because I’m a whole feast, and the people at my table know it’s sacred.