Being a part of a table has always been something I craved.

Wanting to sit at the table has always been my thing.

Wanting to belong.

Wanting to know there was room for me.

If I’m honest, a lot of that comes from being a little girl carrying abandonment wounds and trying to figure out where she fit. I wanted to know that I mattered. That I was wanted. That someone was expecting me.

For a long time, I thought the goal was simply getting to the table.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized there’s a difference between having access to the table and having a seat.

A table is belonging.

A seat is intimacy.

A seat says someone thought about you before you arrived.

Someone anticipated your presence.

Someone made room.

Someone looked around and said, “Save that spot. She’s coming.”

And for me, that’s always meant more than simply being in the room.

Who saved you a seat?

Was it the friend who knew you needed somewhere to land?

The cousin who protected you when nobody else noticed you needed protecting?

The teacher who saw something in you before you saw it in yourself?

The church mother who checked on you every Sunday and made sure you knew you were beautiful?

The auntie who always remembered you, even though you didn’t share the same blood?

When I think about the people who saved me a seat, I don’t always think about physical tables.

I think about emotional ones.

The spaces where I was welcomed before I felt worthy.

The relationships where I was loved before I had everything figured out.

The people who chose me.

Because having a seat is so much more than being present.

A seat gives you position.

It reminds you that you have a place.

It tells you that you don’t have to earn your right to be there.

You belong there.

I am here.

And I have a seat.

Maybe that’s why this idea of tables keeps showing up in my life.

Not because I love gatherings.

Not because I love beautiful dinners.

Not because I enjoy hosting.

But because I know what it feels like to wonder whether there’s room for you.

I know what it feels like to be in the room, sitting at the table, and still feel far away.

And I know what it feels like when someone quietly answers that question by pulling out a chair beside them.

Maybe that’s what we’re all looking for.

Not just a table.

A seat.

A place where our name is already known.

A place where we don’t have to explain why we’re there.

A place where somebody thought enough of us to make room.

So today, I’m thinking about the people who saved me a seat.

The people who made space.

The people who made me feel seen.

The people who made me feel celebrated.

As you read this, I hope you’ll think about them too.

The ones who welcomed you.

The ones who protected you.

The ones who reminded you that you belonged.

And maybe, if you’re fortunate enough to have a seat today, you’ll pull out a chair for someone else.

So I’m wondering:

Who saved a seat for you?

Because I’m not just sitting at the table anymore
I’m learning how to host it.

I’m building a podcast.
I’m growing a business.
I’m shaping a brand with intention, with care, with vision.

And at the very same time…
I’m learning how to be an adult in real life.

Bills still have due dates.
Life still requires structure.
Discipline is no longer optional, IT’S NECESSARY.

And nobody really talks about this part.

The part where your dreams are expanding,
but so are your responsibilities.

The part where you’re pouring into something bigger than you,
but you still have to make sure your lights stay on.

The part where balance isn’t aesthetic…
it’s survival.

Seating at this table looks different than I imagined.

It’s not just pretty dinners and soft lighting.
It’s calendars.
It’s late nights.
It’s choosing what matters most, again and again.

It’s saying no.
It’s staying consistent when nobody is clapping yet.
It’s trusting that what you’re building is worth the stretch.

And whew… the discipline.

Nobody told me that discipline would feel like love in action.
Like choosing myself even when it’s inconvenient.
Like honoring my future by tightening up my present.

Because truthfully
this season is asking more of me than I’ve ever had to give.

But a few mornings ago…
I got checked.

I was doom scrolling, just passing time, not really looking for anything. And I came across a motivational speech by Steve Harvey. One of those moments where something reaches through the screen and sits you all the way down.

He referenced James 4:2:

And baby… I had to sit with that.

Because if I’m telling the truth
I’ve been trying to do this on my own.

Building.
Pushing.
Figuring it out without pausing long enough to actually ask God for what I need.

And not just ask…
but trust.

I have the scars to prove it.

Because every time I move in my own strength,
every time I convince myself I can carry it all
I end up back at the same place.

Tired.
Stretched.
Worn in places nobody can see.

And still… trying to push through.

But this time, something felt different.

This season isn’t just calling for discipline in my work
it’s requiring surrender in my spirit.

Because what I’m building?
It was never meant to be carried by me alone.

And maybe that’s the part nobody tells you when you step into new levels
yes, it will require more of you…

but it will also require you to release more control.

To ask.
To receive.
To trust that what’s for you doesn’t have to be forced out of you.

So now, as I sit at this table, hosting, building, becoming
I’m learning a new rhythm.

Discipline in my hands.
Faith in my heart.

I’m learning how to ask God for what I need without shame.
How to move with structure without losing softness.
How to build a life that doesn’t just look good… but feels aligned.

And if I’m honest
I’m proud of the way I’m showing up at this table.

Even when I’m tired.
Even when I’m figuring it out in real time.
Even when it doesn’t look perfect.

Because this version of me?
She’s not just dreaming anymore.

She’s becoming.

So if you’re in a season where everything feels like it’s happening all at once
where you’re building, stretching, learning, and holding it all together…

Pull up a chair.

There’s room for you here too.

Just know
this table requires discipline.

But baby…
it also holds purpose.

And grace will meet you here every single time you remember
you don’t have to do it alone.

So breathe.

Ask.
Trust.
Keep building.

You’re not behind.

You’re becoming right on time.

There are moments in life that don’t look like milestones on the outside but feel like turning points on the inside.

This week was one of those moments for me.

I recorded my first podcast episode.

And I need to be honest with you…

it is not perfect.

I watched it back and immediately saw everything I would change. The pacing. The lighting. The way I held certain pauses. The confidence I am still growing into. All of it sat right there on the screen, reminding me that I am still becoming.

But for once… I didn’t let that stop me.

Because something deeper mattered more than perfection this time.

I did it.

And that sentence alone carries more weight than any critique I could make.

For two years, I stayed in a cycle I didn’t fully recognize at first. I called it “preparation.” I called it “timing.” I called it “getting things in order.” But if I’m being honest, a lot of it was fear dressed up in productivity. Distractions that looked responsible. Excuses that sounded wise.

And underneath all of it was a quiet hesitation to be seen trying.

Not arriving.

Trying.

Because trying leaves room for judgment. Trying leaves room for imperfection. Trying means you can still be in progress while the world is watching.

But this week, I chose differently.

I chose to get out of my own way.

And I don’t say that lightly.

There is something powerful that happens when you finally stop negotiating with your own potential. When you stop asking for one more week, one more course, one more sign that you are ready, and you just begin anyway.

It doesn’t feel glamorous. It doesn’t feel like a transformation montage. It feels simple. Almost ordinary.

But it changes everything.

I sat down. I recorded. I showed up as I was.

And afterward, I didn’t rush into fixing it or tearing it apart. I paused long enough to acknowledge what I had done.

So tonight, I celebrated me.

Ice cream. Cookies. Something sweet to mark something serious.

Not because the work is finished, but because I finally started.

There is a version of discipline that is harsh and punishing. And then there is a version that is tender. The kind that says, “I see you showing up. I see you choosing differently. I see you trying again.”

That is the version I am learning to live in.

Because I am realizing something important:

You don’t build a body of work by waiting to feel ready.
You build it by returning to yourself again and again in the middle of uncertainty.

And if I’m honest, this moment feels like the first real breath of something new.

Not because everything is figured out.

But because I finally stopped standing in my own way long enough to begin.

I can already see the work ahead of me. The growth. The edits. The refinement. I can see how much better I will become with time, consistency, and care.

But I am no longer waiting for the “better version” of me to arrive before I allow myself to participate in my own life.

I am here now.

And I am building from here.

There is a line I keep coming back to:

It’s not how you start; it’s how you finish.

But what I’m learning is that how you start still matters… because it teaches you who you are willing to be in the beginning.

And I want to be someone who begins.

Even messy.
Even unsure.
Even in progress.

So here I am.

Ronisha Arlene.

Getting out of my own way.
Choosing belief over delay.
And honoring the woman who finally pressed record.

This is only the beginning.

And if you’re reading this, I hope you take this as your reminder too:

You don’t have to be finished to start.
You just have to be willing to begin.

Stay tuned.

Before I ever called it hosting, before I ever dreamed up supper clubs or curated a table with intention, it was already living inside of me, passed down, played out, and poured into me in ways I didn’t fully understand until now.

Hosting, for me, didn’t begin in 2026.
It began at home.

Our house was the house.
The one where everybody gathered on both sides of the family. Maternal and paternal. Friends, cousins, neighbors… it didn’t matter. If there was something to celebrate, or even if there wasn’t, our doors were open.

And one of my fondest memories still lives in Christmas of ‘95.

The entire family stayed the night.
The house was full in the way that only a full house can be laughter bouncing off the walls, music humming through the air, joy sitting heavy in every corner. And that was the year my aunt dressed up as Santa Claus.

We didn’t figure it out because of her voice.
We didn’t figure it out because of her walk.

We figured it out because of her nails.

And somehow, that made it even more magical.

That’s what hosting looked like to me,
not perfection, but presence.
Not performance, but people.

Back then, there was always something playing,
a little Al Green sliding through the speakers, maybe some Prince on a good night.
Champagne bottles wrapped in gold foil.
Backyard patio nights where my parents entertained like it was second nature.

Hosting wasn’t an event.
It was a way of life.

And then… it stopped.

Sometime around ‘96, everything went quiet.
No more music drifting through the house.
No more late nights on the patio.
No more gatherings that stretched into memory.

The soul of hosting, at least in my immediate home, felt like it disappeared.
And truthfully, no one ever picked up the pieces.

But legacy has a way of finding you again.

Because while one house went quiet, another stayed full.

My stepdad’s family, my grandmother specifically, she hosted like it was her calling. Everyday life would allow. No announcement, no occasion needed. Just food, people, and presence.

And that’s when I realized
this didn’t skip me.

I come from hosting royalty.

It showed up again in college
in club events, organization gatherings, and little dinners I’d pull together in my apartment. Nothing extravagant, but always intentional. Always rooted in bringing people together.

And over time, that gift expanded.

From designing events for celebrities to hosting branded experiences, I’ve learned how to create moments at every level. But no matter how elevated the room, my approach has always been the same, make it feel good, make it feel intentional, and make people feel seen.

And now, here I am.

Standing at the edge of something I’ve been carrying for years.

Because the truth is, I’ve been sitting on the dream of a supper club for a long time.
Not because I didn’t know how…
but because I had to understand why.

Hosting, for me, isn’t about aesthetics first.
It’s about fellowship.

I love a good theme, I really do.
But what I love more is what happens around the table.
The conversations.
The laughter.
The quiet moments that remind people they’re seen.

As I step into this hosting era, I’m not starting from scratch.
I’m reaching back.

Back to the music.
Back to the memories.
Back to the version of home that taught me what it means to gather people well.

This Substack, At the Table with Ronisha, is where I’ll share all of it.
The stories.
The recipes.
The tips and tricks.
The small wins that deserve to be celebrated just as much as the big ones.

Not just how to host
but how to make people feel.

Because before I ever set a table of my own…
it was already set for me.

I remember the first day I stepped foot in Atlanta.

It was a hot Saturday; August 7th, to be exact. The kind of Southern heat that settles into your skin and stays awhile. Back then, the city still moved differently. Stores closed on Sundays. You could cruise through the city without interruption. Cheesecake still sat on Peachtree Street like a landmark, and downtown was a place you rarely needed to be. The Underground had already become a memory, not a destination.

2010 feels like another lifetime now.

But even then, Atlanta welcomed me with open arms.

The truth is… I never embraced her.

She loved on me like the city cousin who just showed up to the family reunion familiar, warm, a little loud, but undeniably yours. We had so many similarities, Atlanta and I. We just saw the world differently. Memphis taught me to appreciate the whole wing. Atlanta? She preferred them parted flats and drums, dressed up and ready for the party.

We lived similar lives, but Atlanta had more sparkle. More motion. More possibility.

I never fell in love with the city. Not in the way people say they do.

She just took me in and never let go.

Even when I tried to leave, she held on to me tightly, like she knew something I didn’t. Like she understood that what we were building together had only just begun.

And somewhere along the way, I started to notice her differently.

I love the way she sounds in the peak of spring, when the patios open, laughter spills into the streets, and the sun sets slow and golden across the skyline. I love the way she makes room for everybody. From the scammers to the actresses, from the dreamers to the women still figuring out who they are becoming Atlanta embraces them all without question.

She did the same for me.

As I’ve grown, we’ve grown together.

I’ve watched her rise buildings stretching higher into the sky, the Beltline curving through the city like it was always meant to be there. Even the wing spots, lined up on corners and tucked into neighborhoods feel like institutions. Like churches. Places you return to, over and over again.

Fifteen years later, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

The country cousin learned how to live here.

And don’t get me wrong there are still days I think about giving it all up. Days I crave the slowness, the familiarity, the roots of Memphis. Because Memphis is culture. It’s foundation. It’s home in its purest form.

But Atlanta…

Atlanta raised me.

She gave me space to build a life. To find my people. To be loved in ways that felt real and sustaining. She stretched my vision, widened my perspective, and allowed me to blossom in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

So no, I didn’t fall in love with Atlanta the way people romanticize.

But she loved me anyway.

And in her own way steady, expansive, unwavering she changed me.

So Atlanta, thank you.

Thank you for holding me, even when I resisted you.
Thank you for the community that makes me smile from my soul.
Thank you for the life I’ve built within your rhythm.

Because even though I’m a Memphis girl at my core…

I was seasoned here.

And now, I can say it with pride—

I am a resident of Washington Park, on the Westside of Atlanta, with a 404-area code…
and a story that could have only been written here.

At the table, I honor what has held me.
In my crown, I carry who I’ve become.
And like honey, I’ve learned life is meant to be savored, not rushed.

A few weeks ago, I went on a coffee date with an acquaintance, and somewhere between the sip and the stir, we started talking about owning your work.

So, I did something I don’t always do — I closed my mouth and opened my ears.

She began sharing how every social media platform — in one way or another — has crashed, glitched, or shifted. Then she said something that hit me square in the chest:

“You have a home. You want to keep your voice, so own it. Bring everything back home.”

Whew.

It was one of those cartoon lightbulb moments — that instant spark when you realize the answer was sitting right in front of you the whole time. I have a home. I have Ronisha Arlene. Why am I out here spending the night at someone else’s house every day when I have a place to live?

Message.

That sentence alone preached to me.

But let’s be honest for a minute. Why did I even start a Substack? Because someone told me I needed to. Because I wanted a louder voice. Because it felt like the “thing to do.” But truthfully? I don’t have more followers there than I did before.

And yet — Ronisha Arlene is mine. It’s me. It feels authentic. It feels whole.

So, with that being said — this is officially my last blog post on Substack.
I’m moving everything home to RonishaArlene.com, where my voice, my stories, and my spirit belong.

Why a Blogger? Why Now?

I wish I had a deep, polished answer — but the truth is, I don’t know.

What I do know is this: I’ve been journaling my entire life. Stacks of diaries, notebooks, and scraps of paper filled with thoughts, prayers, and stories. But I never considered myself a writer. I even had to sit down and have a hard talk with God about the voice in my head that kept saying what I wasn’t.

Once I laid that down — the doubt, the comparison, the fear — I decided I’m moving intentionally.

This experience is unlike anything I’ve ever done. It’s purposeful. It’s grounded. I know my why. I know the who. I even know the end goal.

And that feels amazing.

When I made the decision to pivot, I thought about The Pivot Podcast — how those men went from one show to another with intention, structure, and substance. While one platform dissolved, they built something that thrived because they moved on purpose. They didn’t just start over; they built better.

That’s the energy I’m in.

The Future Feels Different Now

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about the future than ever before — how my decisions today will serve my family, my future husband, my children, my legacy.

In past seasons, I’ve poured into everyone else. I wanted others to shine, to be recognized, to have what they needed. And that’s beautiful — but now, I’m building something that breaks cycles.

This time, I’m creating something that allows my family — and future family — to end the rat race.

Moving intentionally means thinking beyond the next five years. It means asking:

“What does generational peace look like for me?”

Yes, this might look like just a website shift on the outside. But for me, it’s so much more than that.

It’s reclaiming my voice. It’s walking into a lane that was always mine. It’s spiritual work — sacred work — to build something no one else can take from me.

Because when someone has the power to silence your voice, to tell you that you have no control over it… that’s a kind of loss I refuse to accept.

Creating with Intention

I am creating something that doesn’t just exist for today — but something that carries weight, purpose, and anointing.

Petals and Cheers is on pause until 2026. It’s not gone — just resting while I restructure, realign, and allow God to breathe on the plans I’m laying before Him. I’m stepping back to propel forward.

This pause isn’t stillness — it’s strategy. It’s surrender. It’s me saying, “Lord, here are my plans. You do what You do.”

In the meantime, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep creating. I’ll keep showing up right here, in my own home — the space that feels like me.

Because when 2026 comes, I want to be ready — ready to let loose, ready to bloom, ready to move not just intentionally, but divinely aligned.

So, I’ll leave you with this question —

What would your life look like if you moved intentionally — not hurried, not hustling — but holy and on purpose?

Let’s talk about it.

Getting a gel pedicure and thinking, damn, my feet look—whoa, hell naw. But that space is a happy place. I remember a few years ago asking myself, where the fuck and how the fuck—because since I was 18, I’ve been chasing the bag. Two jobs, full-time student, doing all the things.

And now, twenty years later, I look up and I’m exhausted. Burnt out. And can I be honest? Just a little bitter.

Have you ever felt like—well damn, here I am. I’ve put in all this work, showed up for everybody, and I’m not even sure if it’s paid off. That bubbly girl who used to be everybody’s friend? She’s quieter now. And in her place is this woman who carries a few internal scars but also a deeper knowing. I’m no longer chasing—I’m searching. Searching for something that allows me to hug my inner child real tight.

And today, sitting there in that nail salon, I realized something—
joy isn’t always found in laughter or celebration. Sometimes it shows up in the quiet moments when you finally stand up for yourself. I realized joy is also boundary work. It’s peace work. It’s the soft relief that comes after saying, “No more,” and meaning it.

I thought joy was just about smiling through it. But it’s also walking away from what drains you, releasing what confuses you, and choosing what honors you.

I didn’t lose anything today. I gained clarity. And that—
that’s joy too.

There is more. So much more.
Sunday alone is a blog within itself.
But I am happy.
Truly — from the soul of me.

Someone once said to me, “You like yourself, but you don’t love yourself.”
And that has stuck with me ever since.

Then Sunday night, I got off the phone with a friend who said, “Boundaries show that you love yourself.”
And that—
that is shelter for joy.

The more I get into this writing thing, the more I fall in love with it. Truly in love with it. It allows me to escape to a place where joy resides. It’s freeing there—no restrictions, no expectations—just me, my words, and pure imagination.

Because maybe that’s what joy really is:
not something you chase, but something you come home to.

And the wildest part?
It’s been a full year of me writing. A whole year.
I’m officially a published author — and I love that for me.

Now let’s be honest: this writing thing isn’t bringing in a dime. Not yet.
But the joy? The joy is priceless.
Like one of those old Mastercard commercials — priceless.

I feel on top of the world. So unstoppable.
And I can’t even explain why.
Maybe that’s just what peace feels like when it finally fits.

Cue: Bigger by: Beyonce

This season, God whispered one word to me: “Bigger.”
And I had to pause, because what if God’s definition of bigger doesn’t look like mine?

For years, I built things that looked successful. Twelve80 Events. Warren Forrest. At Twelve80. Each one was beautiful in its own right, and each one served its season. But what God is building in me now — it looks completely different. It’s quieter. Softer. Rooted.

I used to think bigger meant expansion — more clients, more events, more flowers, more bookings. But God said, “No baby, I’m building your purpose.”

What I’m building now allows me to be genuine. To breathe. To walk fully in who God is calling me to become — not who I was pretending to be just to survive. It’s not for applause. It’s not for validation. It’s for alignment.

Bigger Looks Different Now

Bigger now looks like peace.
Bigger looks like freedom.
Bigger looks like saying no to what drains me and yes to what fills me.
It looks like writing the stories I once held back.
It looks like arranging flowers with intention instead of pressure.
It looks like building community, not just content.

This isn’t just a blog anymore. This isn’t just devotionals or storytelling.
This is a soft landing — a sacred space for women to come as they are.

Here, we rest.
Here, we restore.
Here, we heal — together.

This new beginning is the table God always meant for me to build. One that holds faith, fellowship, and flowers. A table where women can sit down, exhale, and know they are seen and safe.

What God Is Doing Now

As this season unfolds, I’m reminded that waiting often comes with moving.
So yes, we’re moving too.

At the Table with Ronisha is finding its permanent home. Substack has been beautiful — the community, the conversation, the love — but now it’s time to grow into what’s next.

We’re thinking bigger.

This move is more than a platform shift; it’s a faith shift. A move from just writing words to building worlds. A digital home where faith, fellowship, and flowers live under one roof — not as categories, but as callings.

Where every story blooms, every woman is seen, and every “not yet” becomes a new beginning.

So if you’ve been feeling stretched, unsure, or scared of what “bigger” means — know this:
Bigger isn’t about scale. It’s about surrender.

God’s bigger will always look different than what you imagined.
And when you finally say yes, you’ll realize you weren’t waiting on Him —
He was waiting on you to believe you were capable of it.

We’re moving into our permanent home — and I can’t wait for you to see what God is building.
Follow At the Table with Ronisha for updates, and stay tuned as Petals & Cheers pauses November 1st. The bloom isn’t ending, it’s just being replanted into something bigger.

Cue: “I’ll Just Say Yes” by Brian Courtney Wilson

A few months ago, I woke up in that half-dream space — not fully awake but not asleep either — and I heard a loud voice say, “I got you.”

It was so clear, so close, I thought someone was lying next to me. But it wasn’t. It was God.

That morning, I was standing at a crossroads: stay at a job I loved but that wasn’t paying the bills or take a risk and bet on myself.
If you know me, you already know — I never pick the easy road. Duh.

So, at 6:30 a.m. I released my shifts, closed that chapter, and said yes to the unknown. To celebrate, I signed up for a hike with the homies. It had been over a year since my last one, so it felt divine.

But this wasn’t just any hike — it was a holy one.
The deeper I climbed, the louder God got.
“Good day, Sir,” I thought, “this was supposed to be relaxing.”

Yet the higher we went, the heavier His words landed: “You have to trust Me.”
And out loud I said, “I’m scared.”

The women around me probably thought I was losing it. Maybe I was. But for the first time in my life, I was walking a tightrope with no safety net — and I was scared as hell.

The Wait That Broke Me

When I got back home, I set out on a mission: rebuild, reposition, and restore my brand.

I started cold-calling, cold-emailing, cold-DMing — 100 people a day. One hundred.
And nothing.

I sent pitch decks, portfolios, prayers — and still silence.

So, there I was, talking back to God like, “Okay Sir, you said You got me, right?”
We’ve all been there — trying to remind God of what He promised, when the truth is, He never forgot.

Then came the storm: bills overdue, car note hanging, and finally the 3-day notice on my door.
That one hit different.

So, I found myself in a public restroom one day, crying in a stall, trying to figure out how I’d gotten there. I was shaking, whispering, “God, I can’t do this anymore.”

And just then, two little kids ran in laughing — one humming a song, the other talking about how she wanted ice cream after school. I froze. That sound of innocence and joy cracked something in me.

It reminded me that life keeps moving. That joy still exists, even when you’re standing in the middle of your storm.

I wiped my face, washed my hands, and whispered back, “Okay God… I still trust You.”

And as clear as before, I heard, “I told you I got you.”

Every No Was Still a Seed

In that moment I realized: waiting isn’t punishment — it’s preparation.
Every no is protection.
Every delay is direction.

But you’ve got to be still long enough to hear that.

Worship kept me sane. I’ll Just Say Yes played every morning until it became prayer.

And when my phone got cut off? Baby, that was God cutting the noise.
No distractions. No quick fixes. Just me and Him.

Then, one morning — 70-plus days later — I got a yes.
Not just from a client, but from God Himself.
It wasn’t luck. It was obedience finally meeting opportunity.

The Wait Inside the Yes

But even in that yes, there was still a wait.
A different kind of wait.

A wait that meant don’t move out of turn.
Now when I say that’s a powerful space — whew. It’s too much for me.

Let me take you back for a minute.
Do you remember being a kid in school, standing in line for the restroom? You were so close to your turn but still had to wait. You knew your moment was about to happen — but you couldn’t rush it.

That’s exactly what this season feels like. God is watching to see if I’ll revert to old habits when I feel the pressure to move.

Then He gave me this scripture:

“The people should not think that small beginnings are unimportant.
They will be happy when they see Zerubbabel with tools, building the Temple.”
— Zechariah 4:10 (ICB)

Listen — I had to fix my face.

God is building something bigger than me.
And others have to see His hand on my life, even in the small beginnings.

While I might be seeking God’s face, this part is personal.

So, I ask you — are you willing to wait?
To wait for that thing that will change your entire life.
To wait and worship like your life depends on it?

Because it does.
As a wise woman once said — this is a very serious matter.

The Fruit of Obedience

That yes hit different.
Because it came through fire. Through surrender. Through ugly-cry faith.

Now, I can say it with my full chest:
All the no’s were worth it.

Every tear. Every rejection. Every “not right now.”
They were all shaping me for the yes, I could hold.

Faith isn’t pretty. It’s pruning. It’s pressure. It’s purpose wrapped in patience.

But when your yes finally comes, it’ll make every no make sense.

Things are shifting — and that’s a good thing.

Petals & Cheers will be taking a pause beginning November 1st as we prepare for what’s next. Growth sometimes looks like stillness, and I’m honoring that.

But this isn’t goodbye — it’s just an intentional pause.
Keep following along on the journey, because when we return, it’ll be with even more faith, fellowship, and flowers.

In the meantime, stay connected with me through At the Table with Ronisha and Floral & Spice, where the storytelling, the gathering, and the blooming never stop.

To become anything, you first have to come from something. To become a storyteller, you first have to collect data.

And you might be asking—what kind of data is a floral storyteller collecting? Because I, Ronisha Arlene, am not just a storyteller. I am a floral storyteller. And I don’t just tell any story. I tell the story of the African American woman.

Her movements in her curves. The statue in her stance. The textures in her style. The boldness in her color.

For the last forty years, I’ve been collecting data.
From every room I’ve walked into, every conversation I’ve leaned in on, every woman who pulled me close enough to whisper their truths. And yes, I pat myself on the back because this data? It’s sacred. It’s weighty. It’s costly.

And here’s the truth: the story of the African American woman is dying.

The Weight She Carries

Many people call themselves storytellers, but what story are they really telling? Are they telling the story of how she carried not only the African American family but the weight of the nation on her back?

I once saw a piece of art—an African American man holding the world on his back. And I would debate that painting because the African American woman is the one holding up that man. But who, and I do mean who, holds up the African American woman? Side-eye: other African American women.

And not just any African American woman. The woman who nurtures with her voice. Who embraces with her words. Who wears her resilience like fragrance. That’s who I tell stories for.

Data in the Silence

This week, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop. Normally, by Tuesday, I’d already have my blog written. But I was stuck. Didn’t know what I wanted to say. Didn’t know where to begin.

And then I listened.

At that table, in that coffee shop, I realized there are so many stories African American women carry. They hold them like treasures—delicate, hidden, guarded. And as I sat there, I understood something: the African American woman’s story is so enriching, so layered, but if we don’t stop to hear it, it will disappear into the noise.

That’s where I come in.

God told me: write and create.
But before you can write, you have to collect. Before you can create, you have to listen. And I’ve been listening my whole life.

I Get It Now

I get it now. I totally understand how I got to this table—or rather, how I’ve been called to create a table. A table to listen to stories, to write the stories, and to build floral pieces that carry those stories.

From the African American woman who finally claimed a seat on a Fortune 500 board.
To the African American woman who founded a whiskey brand and wrote her own blueprint.
To the African American filmmaker who documents others’ lives while her own story goes unnoticed.
To the African American woman at McDonald’s on the grill, making sure your burger is cooked to perfection.

I, Ronisha Arlene, tell their stories.

And yes, you might be thinking: Haven’t we heard the African American woman’s story enough?
My answer: hell naw.

Because what’s been portrayed is not, and I do repeat not, the truth of who she is. Everyone else gets to depict our story—but not through the lens I see. Being an African American woman myself, I know we are the unspoken story. And through flowers, I’m here to tell it.

Flowers as Witnesses

We think flowers are delicate, but if you’ve ever worked with blooms, you know they endure.

They endure pruning.
They endure cutting.
They endure packaging, shipping, and designing.
And even after all of that—they still bloom, still bring joy, still tell a story.

The African American woman is the same. She endures.

That’s why my floral storytelling is not just about pretty arrangements—it’s about creating living narratives. Each flower, each stem, each texture represents a story. The bruised petal. The stem that had to be cut back before it bloomed. The rose that’s still standing, bold and unapologetic.

Collecting for Forty Years

For forty years, I’ve been gathering this data.

From my grandmother who couldn’t read or write.
From my mother, who loved my stepfather in ways she didn’t love my biological father.
From my closest friends who live with secrets just to keep their families whole.
From strangers who, for reasons I may never understand, felt safe enough to spill their stories into my lap.

These stories have been my textbooks.
The African American woman has been my curriculum.

Awkward But Anointed

For so long, I wanted to be a “girls’ girl.” But I never fit the mold. Too ghetto for the bougie girls. Too bougie for the ghetto girls. Always the awkward one out.

Issa Rae gave us permission to be awkward—but I lived it long before it became a hashtag. I was the girl sitting in the bookstore for hours, escaping into Omar Tyree and Sister Soulja. I was the one buying CDs and disappearing into the lyrics. I was collecting data even then.

Because the African American woman always has something to say. And I was always meant to be her floral storyteller.

So here I am—embracing what God whispered years ago. Write and create. And I finally understand what it means. My flowers will tell the stories of African American women. Their endurance. Their beauty. Their brilliance. Their pain.

Maya Angelou said it best: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

That’s the heartbeat of floral storytelling. That’s my ministry. That’s my calling.

Every flower I design carries a story. When you purchase from Petals & Cheers, you’re not just buying blooms—you’re carrying a piece of the African American woman’s story into your home, your office, your celebration.

Order your flowers today and let them speak joy, endurance, and restoration into your space. 🌸✨

Cue: Soulection Radio episode 700 by Joe Kay

It’s Thursday night and Soulection Radio episode 700 is playing in the background. It’s been a while since I tuned in, but I needed an escape. Music has always been my safe place, and Soulection always gets me there.

As I stand, tapping my feet in the state office, I realize I’m just waiting.

Waiting for what? For God to show up? To move in a way I’ve never seen before?

But what if God doesn’t show up the way I expect? What if He does it, but not how I imagined? What if God is asking not for my complaints, but for my surrender?

So the real question is: am I waiting on God, or is God waiting on me?

My Real Talk with God

Normally, I’d have this week’s post ready by Tuesday. I’d know what I want to say and how I want to say it. But life hit differently this week. I literally had to say to God: “Dude, I’m waiting on you.”

Now, let me be clear. My relationship with God is like a turnt-up father/daughter bond. My relationship with Jesus? That’s my street homie. And Holy Spirit — well, that’s another conversation for another day.

But here I am in this office, waiting for God to show up, and all I hear back is: “I’ve been waiting on you.”

Well damn, Sir. Get me together.

Noise vs. Surrender

Have I really been “here”? Probably not. I’ve been distracted. Chaos has been playing in my head like Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. So, when God said, “I’ve been waiting on you,” it felt out of place — but it was true.

I’ve been waiting on Him to fix my circumstances, but the whole time, He’s been waiting on me. Waiting for me to quiet the noise. To shut down the distractions. To focus fully.

And I have been making changes. Boundaries are going up. Vices are being laid down. No drinking in over a week — not even a glass of red wine (and you know that’s a must for me). Boys? Out. At this point, they eat boogers in this season. Comfort food? Shelved.

Because this season is about showing God that I am invested. That I want to gather with Him, first.

Confirmation Came

As if I needed any more clarity, I left Bible study and met a leader in the church. She looked me straight in the face and said: “You are a storyteller.”

It was like God using her as a vessel to water a seed. Normally, I’d just smile and move on. But this time, it hit different. Because that’s what I’ve been working toward: being branded as a floral storyteller. And here was God saying, “I’ve been waiting on you to step into this.”

It scared the living shit out of me. For real. Because people’s stories are connected to me walking in my purpose. And if I don’t walk in it? They don’t get what they need. That’s heavy.

But it’s also confirmation that I can’t hide anymore.

So, Who’s Waiting?

This week’s Table Sermon is simple: stop assuming you’re waiting on God. Sometimes, He’s waiting on you.

Waiting on you to change the habits.
Waiting on you to put boundaries in place.
Waiting on you to move differently instead of repeating the same cycles.

Because you can sit in the “waiting room” all you want, but if you don’t do something different, you’ll stay stuck in the same place.

So, I’ll ask you: are you really waiting on God, or is God waiting on you?

The Invitation

This month’s theme is Gathered Goodness — and this week, I realized the first gathering has to be with God.

And next week, I’m extending that table to you.

The inaugural Floral & Spice supper club happens Saturday, September 27, 2025. Tickets are LIVE.

This isn’t just a dinner. It’s fellowship. It’s storytelling. It’s a safe space to laugh, cry, eat, and feel seen.

👉🏾 [Reserve your seat now.]

Because the goodness isn’t just in waiting. It’s in gathering. And your seat is waiting.

Suite Restoration: From Parking Lot to Peace

Cue: “Miracles” by Kierra Sheard feat. Pastor Mike Jr. (On Repeat)

I remember the clock counting down on December 31, 2024. Everyone else was shouting Happy New Year. Me? I was sitting with the reality that as soon as the clock struck midnight, I, Ronisha Arlene, was officially homeless.

No matter how I tried to dress it up, that was the truth. No place to call home. No place to rest. No place of peace.

I remember asking a friend if I could stay with her. Her response? “You’ll need to talk to my boyfriend who’s now living in your house.” Yep, I said that right. Noted. Pride wouldn’t let me knock on my ex’s door. So where did I land? In a Walmart parking lot on the east side of Atlanta. Scared. Loud thoughts running through my head. Trying to figure out what this night, this year, this season would look like.

Fast forward to March 28, 2025: I got the keys to my own apartment.

This wasn’t just a place to sleep. It was about to be my oasis of peace. A place where I could revive. Restore. Reset. In walked Suite Restoration.

Why Suite Restoration?

Every room here has a purpose. Every corner whispers restoration. When I walked into this space, it was a blank canvas — and God said, “Paint it.”

My concept? Maximalist meets mid-century modern boutique hotel. Think Starwood’s Moxy vibes, mixed with my Memphis roots, sprinkled with color and soul.

• Bedroom: Deep greens and sensual tones, anchored by a bold yellow bed frame. Walls dressed with art of strong Black women — reminders that strength and softness can coexist in this restoration era.

• Living Room: An ode to Memphis and music. From Isaac Hayes to Erykah Badu, I wanted the room to feel like a live lounge — bold pink walls (Behr’s “Glamorous”), moody lighting, and music in the air.

• Bathroom: Spa vibes. Terracotta warmth, shades of blue, and textures that make it feel like a retreat.

• Kitchen: Grown, intentional energy — still carrying the terracotta and blue theme, but sharper, more elevated.

• Second Bedroom: I fought myself here. I didn’t want another office. Every apartment before this, the second room became “work.” This time, I chose restoration. A closet-office hybrid. Healing Black girl energy. Restoration after years of running.

Suite Restoration isn’t just décor. It’s my testimony in furniture, paint, and space.

Look at God

Five months later, I hit pause. Then an email changed everything: “Congratulations, you’ve been accepted as a Wayfair Creator.”

Whew. Look at God.

From a Walmart parking lot to creating spaces with Wayfair. From having nothing to now curating pieces that reflect intentional living, maximalism, and restoration. From floral storytelling at other people’s tables to finally setting my own.

What’s Next

Between Suite Restoration, my Wayfair finds, and the launch of Floral & Spice, this is more than décor. It’s a lifestyle. A movement. A testimony that no matter how low the valley, restoration is always on the horizon.

So welcome to Suite Restoration.
Not just an apartment. Not just content.
A home. A haven. A brand.

And now, I get to share it with you.

👉🏾 Shop my Wayfair Creator Storefront for the exact pieces and vibes that built Suite Restoration. From bold color palettes to intentional details, everything I’m curating is rooted in restoration, style, and soul.

[Visit my Wayfair Storefront here.]

Let’s create spaces that restore, together.

When the storms hit, most of us ask: “Why me?”
But this week, I had to flip the question: “Why not me?”

Because gathered goodness doesn’t always come dressed as laughter and abundance. Sometimes it shows up as lessons in the storm — pulling together both the highs and the lows until they make sense.

This week, I celebrated a high: becoming a Wayfair Creator. That’s gathered goodness. A blessing that fits perfectly with who I am — faith, fellowship, flowers. A seat at the table I’ve been building my whole life.

But in the same week, the lows hit: no flower orders, cold DMs left on read, DoorDash runs draining my spirit and my car, no callbacks on job applications. The storm felt heavy.

And yet… gathered goodness.
Because why not me?

The Why Not Me Perspective

I am a natural-born creative. I create with my eyes closed. I was made by the Creator, so I am anointed to create.

So why not me to hold this storm? Why not me to grow through it? Why not me to be equipped?

Here’s the truth: storms don’t come to strip us — they come to reveal what’s already in our hands. Many times before the storm, God has already given us the equipment we need. We just don’t know how to use it until the rain starts falling.

The Confirmation

And because God never leaves me guessing, He sent confirmation. At a journaling session this week, a woman simply said: “Why not me?”

Checkmate. Full circle.

It was God whispering: You’re not just surviving this storm. You’re built for it.

The Gathered Goodness in the Storm

This week reminded me: gathered goodness isn’t just the fellowship dinners, the laughter with friends, or the flowers at the table. It’s also in the lessons, the storms, the stripping away, and the rebuilding.

The goodness is in knowing you’re equipped. The goodness is in realizing that every season — even the stormy ones — is still gathering you closer to God, closer to purpose, closer to the table He set for you.

Closing & CTA

So this week, I’m not asking “Why me?” anymore. I’m declaring: “Why not me?”

Why not me to walk through the storm and still gather goodness?
Why not me to live out faith, fellowship, and flowers — even when orders aren’t coming in?
Why not me to keep building tables where others can gather, even while I’m learning to trust in my own season?

The storm doesn’t cancel the goodness. It gathers it.

✨ And speaking of gathering, the table is officially set:
The inaugural Floral & Spice is LIVE. Tickets are available now.

Reserve your seat today.

Come laugh, eat, cry, fellowship, and be poured into. This isn’t just dinner — this is Gathered Goodness. 💐

This week has been so special.

Making an intentional lifestyle is hard as hell. Let’s be clear. Being an entrepreneur is one thing, but building a brand that embodies being intentional? That’s another level. Because you can’t just sell it — you have to live it. Sit with that for a second.

Dinner With My Hubby + Bestie

My hubby and my bestie came to town. Now, let me explain. My “hubby” is my best guy friend, the one I’ve loved since sophomore year at Alabama State. He’s always easy to get in the room.

But my bestie? Whew. Getting her to travel is like pulling teeth. So when she said she was coming, I stopped everything. Ran immediately. We’ve been friends since the day my Memphis nosiness got on her Detroit nerves — two city girls with different perspectives but the same soul.

To have them both in the same space, pouring into me in different ways, was magical. We fellowshipped in a way that fed me. Forget the food — it nourished my soul. Laughter from the belly, a little ratchet energy with God all over it. It slowed me down, reminded me of joy, and prepared me for the stillness I’ve been craving. (Of course, we didn’t take pictures while we were together, too deep into fellowship. SMH)

Stillness + Solo Travel

Being still has been on my spirit all year. If I’m honest, since last September. This time last year, I was living it up at the Blue Note Jazz Festival in Napa, soaking in every note. That experience fed me like nothing else.

But this year? I’ve been craving solo stillness. There’s something about traveling alone, about enjoying your own company. Yes, this month is about Gathered Goodness, but the truth is — gathering starts with self. If you don’t know how to sit with yourself, you’ll get lost at the table with others. Side-eye emoji.

Tracee Ellis Ross said it best on her solo travel show on Roku: sometimes you’ve got to take yourself out, be with yourself, love yourself. My solo travel journey started when I was 24 — a twelve-hour road trip from Knoxville to Charlotte to Atlanta. Running from heartbreak, driving through the Tennessee mountains in the dark. That trip changed me, and I’ve been solo traveling ever since.

I haven’t made it overseas yet (Italy was supposed to be my first, but then COVID hit). Nerves aside, I know I’ll get there. But until then, I’ll keep feeding myself with these solo moments. Because before you step to the grown folks’ table, you better know who you are when it’s just you.

Football Season Energy

And speaking of grown folks’ tables — football season is here. And baby, the table talk gets REAL.

Let me make it official: I am a Colorado Auntie now. One of the young aunties, and I’m rooting for Prime. Period. I know, I know — living in Atlanta you’d think I’d go for Georgia Tech. Nope.

But let me be clear — my heart is Memphis. Titans. Grizzlies. Tigers. Vols. And honorable mention: Carolina Panthers, Auburn Tigers, and all things Alabama State.

The best season to gather has begun, and I couldn’t be more excited.

The Story of Floral & Spice

If I’m being honest, Floral & Spice has been coming my whole life.

I’ve been a restaurant server for well over 20 years. Hotels for 10-plus years. Cocktail serving here and there — though let’s be clear, that was never my vibe. I’m a bougie girlie when it comes to service and food. My expectations are extremely high, off the charts. So, to see me step into Floral & Spice? Honestly, it feels expected.

I’ve done flowers for so many dinner parties it’s wild. For influencers. For event planners. You name it, I’ve probably touched the table. But here’s the difference — this time, I’m no longer the table hand. I’m not in the background, setting the scene for someone else. This is all God’s work, and I get to sit in the seat He prepared for me.

The closest I’ve ever come to hosting was through a former client turned friend, Madison James — also a native Tennessean and a brand all her own. Working with her gave me the bug. It opened my eyes to what it looks like to bring people together with intention, grace, and presence.

So here we are. Floral & Spice.
A dream that’s been simmering under the surface for years.
And now, it’s time to serve it hot.

The Invitation

This season of Gathered Goodness is just beginning. And what better way to celebrate than with the official launch of Floral & Spice?

✨ Not just a dinner. A fellowship. A gathering. A place to laugh, cry, eat, and be poured into. A safe table where every seat matters.

So pull up a chair. Follow along for details on the very first Floral & Spice supper club. The table is set, sis. And your seat is waiting.

Cue DJ Short’s mashup of Maxwell and Solange — it’s been on repeat in my head.

This week At the Table, I want to adjust a few seats. Some of us have been caught up in the noise — doing it for the timeline, the likes, the performance. But let me say this with love and legacy:

Everything loud ain’t lasting.

We live in a world obsessed with being seen. To trend. To go viral. To make noise.

But baby, noise does not equal nurture.

Noise will fill a room for a moment.

Nurture will build roots that hold for a lifetime.

A Word from the Table (and Grandma)

My grandma used to say:

“Don’t be so common.”

She wasn’t talking about status or money — she meant don’t water down your brilliance just to be accepted. Don’t blend in when you were born to build something bold. Don’t perform when you were created to pour.

A Moment from Wednesday Night

This past Wednesday, I had the honor of attending Austin Channing Brown’s book signing for her new release Full of Myself — and whew, what a word. She was interviewed by Morgan Nicole Nichols, and when I tell you it was like sitting in on a sacred conversation? Healing and holy.

Brown spoke about taking up space — not to be a spectacle, not to ride the next trend. But to show up authentically. Whole. Present. Full.

And it reminded me:

Your presence is power.

Your purpose is not a performance.

And your silence does not mean you’re missing — it means you’re rooting.

And Then Denzel Said…

In a recent interview, Denzel Washington said:

“You don’t have to be good to get a follow.”

Say that again for the people in the back.

But then he followed it up with this:

“But if you have people following you, you better have something when they get there.”

Listen.

We outside chasing followers, virality, applause…

But what’s the substance when they get to you?

The noise is loud and fast. And I can’t lie — I lived there for years. I wanted the recognition, the lights, the proof that I mattered.

But nurture? Purpose? Legacy?

That’s Lawry’s Seasoned Salt kind of living.

That’s Sunday dinner collard greens wisdom.

It takes time. Heat. Love. Soul.

Because substance? Substance is so much more than a moment.

And the real question becomes:

What comes after that moment?

A Word from the Dark

For two years — come this September 1st — I went into the dark and sat with God.

A lot of soul searching.

A lot of cleaning out the sticky stuff that meant me no good.

A lot of therapy.

Walks with God.

Intentional stillness.

So this is me giving you your permission slip to build where no one is watching.

Where you can cry.

Where you can be honest.

Where you can wash your greens thoroughly —

because it takes about two or three times before you get all the dirt off.

Sit with that.

And before you come back, ask yourself:

“Am I just rinsed? Or am I really clean?”

Noise is Fast. Nurture is Slow.

• Noise says: “Do it for the ‘gram.”

• Nurture says: “Do it for the generations.”

• Noise will have you performing for strangers while your purpose starves.

• Nurture will have you watering what God told you to plant — even when nobody’s clapping.

Back to the Basics

This is your permission slip to build in the dark.

To grow without the gallery.

To trust the God who sees in silence.

Start asking:

• Am I growing?

• Am I grounded?

• Am I good with God?

Because here’s the truth: substance beats spectacle every time.

“Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock.”

— Matthew 7:24

Final Benediction

Don’t mistake noise for nurture.

Don’t trade roots for reach.

Don’t water your worth down to make yourself digestible.

You were never meant to be common.

You were meant to carry something.

And the best fruit? It grows in stillness.

So cue the DJ Short mashup, pour your tea or wine, and pull up a chair.

Let’s build something that actually lasts.

Want more moments like this?

Join me over on Substack for weekly storytelling, scripture, and soul restoration.

Subscribe to “At the Table with Ronisha”

But then — a scratchy throat. Just a little one, but it made me pause. Not now, I thought. I don’t have time for this.

By Tuesday, I didn’t get a choice. I was flat on my back all day. Then somehow at night, I found myself at a friend’s birthday dinner, trying to keep it together. But before I even made it home, my whole dinner had a formal introduction to the concrete outside. My stomach said, No ma’am. The sickness and the food? They weren’t happening.

So, I surrendered.

Laid Out Lessons

Two whole days of wheezing, coughing, chest congestion. Multiple hot showers to steam it out. Vicks VapoRub rubbed on my chest like I was ten years old again. And yes, bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup. That was my table this week.

No flowers. No writing. No business plans. Just me, my body, and God saying, “Girl, SIT DOWN.”

And if I’m being real? I didn’t want to. I wanted to keep pushing through, keep producing, keep showing up for everybody and everything. But sometimes God allows us to be still because He knows we won’t stop on our own.

Back to the Basics of Rest

This week reminded me that back to the basics isn’t just about the work we do — it’s about the rest we allow.

Even in Genesis, God created the heavens and the earth in six days… and then He rested. Think about that. The God of the universe paused, not because He needed to, but to show us that rest is sacred. If God Himself modeled rest, who am I to think I can outwork God?

What I Learned While Laid Up

• Your body will speak when your spirit has been whispering. Mine said slow down.

• Rest is not optional. It’s part of the assignment. It’s the pause that keeps you from breaking.

• Community matters. The texts, the prayers, the “you good?” messages reminded me that I’m covered.

• Comfort is holy too. Showers, Vicks, and soup are not just remedies — they’re restoration tools.

• Your health is worship. Even with bills due and past due, my praise and worship this week was in my rest. Listening to God in the stillness was massive. Letting my body reset was huge. And it reminded me — I need to get back in shape. Between the Shake Shack burgers and the Fellini’s pizza, I am no longer built like a 20-year-old. My health matters. My rest matters. And my worship is in the rest, too. Whew, that was a word — because a girl who doesn’t know how to rest sure learned this week. LOL but Amen.

The Table This Week

At this week’s table, there was no styled dinner party, no playlist queued up, no big floral centerpiece. Instead, there was steam from hot showers, bowls of soup, tissues, and long stretches of silence.

And you know what? That was enough.

Because fellowship doesn’t always mean gathering in laughter. Sometimes it looks like gathering in grief. Sometimes it looks like leaning on a friend. And sometimes… it looks like sitting in your own bed, letting God restore you from the inside out.

The Reminder

Back to the basics means remembering that life doesn’t always have to be flashy. It doesn’t always have to be productive. It doesn’t always have to be shared.

Sometimes, the holiest thing you can do is sleep.
Sometimes, the most spiritual thing you can do is drink your soup and breathe through the Vicks.
Sometimes, saying “Amen” is just choosing to let your body and spirit rest.

So if you’re reading this and you’re tired, worn out, or trying to push through when your body is begging you to stop — hear me:

Rest.
It is so.
Amen.

Cue the song “F.U.B.U” by Solange.
As I sit here and daydream, the ideal table for me is an array of shades of Black women sitting together — from all walks of life — feeling seen, feeling safe, feeling heard, and most importantly, being celebrated.

The most beautiful part? None of the women look alike. They’re all different. From the homeless woman who just wants a chance, an opportunity, to the CEO on the brink of burnout who just needs a safe landing.

This is some good shit.

Okay, open your eyes — let’s build this table so every woman has a seat.

In today’s world, we aren’t creating tables anymore… we’ve got sections. Side-eye emoji. Standing on top of the table for Instagram photos, forgetting the real point — to keep the table sacred.

The table I’m talking about is the one at your grandmother’s house, the one you dreamed of sitting at but couldn’t until you were old enough to join the grown-up conversation. Back then, having a seat at that table meant you had arrived. And when you finally sat down, you felt seen, heard, and celebrated.

That kind of seat is more than a picturesque moment — it’s a still moment.

I remember being the girl who wanted to sit at the “cool” table — the girls with the newest cars, the athletic boyfriends, and the designer purses. I’d try to fit in however I could — sometimes lying, sometimes forcing myself to blend. But the puzzle pieces never matched.

I was too ghetto for the bougie girls and too bougie for the ghetto girls. Always in this awkward in-between space. I could mingle with anyone, but I never felt rooted with either side.

It was like I had my own seat, but no table where it truly fit.

Then, one day, God told me my ministry was fellowship.
I fought it.
Hard.

“Fellowship?” I asked Him. “How, Sway? Nobody in the Bible is famous for fellowship.”

Most people’s ministries are prophet, preacher, teacher… never “fellowshipper.” Even now, my computer tries to tell me it’s not a real word. But I heard Him clearly:
Your purpose is faith, fellowship, and flowers.

And I knew — this is what my community would be built on. A table where women feel seen, heard, and celebrated.

So I’m inviting you — yes, you — to join me at this table.

Take your shoes off, get comfortable. Today’s meal? Elevated soul food. The kind that hits your stomach and your soul. The decorative plates will keep you in awe, the glassware will invite conversation, but it’s the stories — the laughter, the healing, the truth — that will make you not want to leave.

This is a table where failures are healed, where tears are welcome, and where a homeless woman can sit right next to a Fortune 500 CEO. This table knows all the secrets… and keeps them.

Being from Memphis, Southern hospitality runs in my veins. I’ve always created spaces where people feel safe to be themselves. I’ve had strangers walk up to me and share their entire life story — and I’ve held it, protected it.

Now it’s time to build this for more than just me.

Closing Invitation
If you’ve been looking for a seat at a table that’s rooted in authenticity — not hype, not follower counts — this is it. A table where the food is rich, the conversations are richer, and the connections are the richest thing of all.

Pull up a chair. There’s a seat here with your name on it.

Lessons from the Losses: What the Classroom Couldn’t Prepare Me For

Death has been at my doorstep all my life. I would look around and people would be here today… and gone tomorrow.

No one taught me the equation to death. No one.

So being a 10-year-old trying to figure out the answer to “your mother is never coming home” was not this week’s homework assignment. There was no chapter in a history book, no worksheet in math class, no essay in English lit that could prepare me for that.

Being in class Monday through Friday never taught me that death was inevitable. That it would show up like a pop quiz — no warning, no studying, just an expectation to somehow pass. You learn quickly that you can’t bargain with the grade you get on that test. You simply have to live with the results.

And that’s the thing about some of life’s hardest lessons: they don’t come in neat little slideshows with bullet points. They show up raw, ungraded, and irreversible.

No Grades for Grit: The Real Curriculum of Falling and Getting Back Up

Life doesn’t give you a syllabus with due dates and assignments laid out for the semester. Nah. Life hands you blank pages — like braille for the soul — and you have to learn to read them one painful, beautiful touch at a time.

Every test is a snowball effect from the last lesson, and you rarely see it coming.

Pop quiz.

Every. Single. Time.

Like that teacher who walks in without a smile, drops the papers on your desk, and says, “Clear your desks.” Except the stakes are higher.

Sometimes, failure shows up when you’re already carrying something heavy — preparing for another test, in another class, in another area of your life — and now this? Life will stack the weight just to see if you’ll break or bend.

And here’s what no one told me: you can fail and still have to show up the next day. You can fail and still have to retake the test without any instructions on how to approach it differently. You can fail, again and again, until you learn how to live through it without losing you.

Failed Tests. Passed Purpose.

There have been so many times I thought, “Okay, I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I’ll pass.”

And then… failed. Again.

But here’s the thing — I kept getting back up.

Sometimes, your purpose is so loud, so undeniable, that even when life marks you with an F, it’s just refining your character to hold the weight of that purpose.

You may not get an A in your circumstances. But you can still graduate in your calling.

What the World Called Failing, God Called Becoming

This is the season I’m in right now. If you looked at my life from the outside, it would look like I’m failing. From the car I drive to the place I call home, it might read like a downward spiral.

But God…

God has His hand on my life, and I know it’s only a matter of time before things start popping — like kernels in hot oil. The heat is uncomfortable, but it’s part of the process.

The world’s definition of wealth — money, mansions, titles — is nothing compared to the wealth of peace, joy, and purpose. Those are free. No price tag. No debt attached.

And maybe that’s what all these “failures” have been teaching me: the bigger the house doesn’t mean the bigger the joy. The fancier the car doesn’t mean the smoother the road.

What school didn’t teach me about failure is that failure is a comma, not a period.

It’s a pause before a new sentence.

A necessary break before the next chapter.

And sometimes, the very thing that looks like failure is the thing God is using to make you… you.

“Amen: a declaration of affirmation; it is so.”
Cue: “Let the Church Say Amen” by Andraé Crouch and Marvin Winans 🎶

This week I found myself repeating one word over and over again.
Sometimes whispering it.
Sometimes out loud.
Sometimes with tears.
Sometimes in pure relief.

Amen.

A word we often reserve for church pews and Sunday benedictions.
But now I see it as everyday language for the soul.
Amen simply means:

“It is so.”
That’s it.

And this? This is my season of Amen.

I’m No Longer Arguing With What Is

This isn’t a season where I’m fighting the facts.
This isn’t a season where I’m questioning the good, the bad, or the indifferent.

It’s a season of:

• Receiving.

• Releasing.

• Surrendering to what’s real.

It’s the understanding that wherever there’s an ending, a new beginning is already unfolding.
That no matter how hard the truth is — if God allowed it, I can say:
Amen.

Because on the other side of that Amen is something new.
Even if I can’t see it yet.
Even if I don’t feel ready.
Even if all I have is the faith to say “it is so” and trust that God meant it for my good.

The Hike: A Parable in Real Time

I went hiking this weekend.

At first, the group was full of energy — laughing, talking, excited about the destination.
The pictures we were gonna take. The scenic moment at the top.
But the closer we got, the harder it became.
Breath got short. Feet started hurting. Spirits got quiet.

The journey stopped being cute.

And when we finally made it to the bamboo — the destination — I looked around and thought:

“Damn… this is it?”

And then it hit me: the journey was the story.
The climb. The struggle. The pacing. The breaks.
That was the lesson.

Because even when you get to the place you were trying to reach —
you can’t stay there forever.
You get a few photos, a deep breath, and then it’s time to move.
Message.

The Shortcut Was Harder

On the way back, we chose a shortcut.
But what we thought would be easier was actually more intense.
Steeper. Rougher. Less marked.
But we got to the cars faster.

And that’s when God dropped this in my spirit:

“You’ll get there faster this time…
But it’s going to be more intense.”

Whew. That’s a word.
That shortcut wasn’t easier, but it was necessary.
It was a new route. A new way to move forward.

But in order to take it?
I had to say: Amen.
To the discomfort.
To the unfamiliar path.
To the new lesson.

What the Alchemist Taught Me

One of my favorite books is The Alchemist.
It reminds me that in our obsession with destinations, we often forget the beauty and purpose of the journey.
The conversations. The breakdowns. The miracles in motion. The healing in hidden places.

We want to “arrive” so badly, we forget to say Amen for what we’ve endured along the way.

And that’s why I’m writing this.

Because we don’t always need a new answer.
Sometimes we just need a new agreement.

Say Amen to:

• What you’re releasing

• Who you’re becoming

• What didn’t work

• The job you outgrew

• The friend who drifted

• The version of you that kept playing small

• The opportunity that passed

• The next season that’s calling

Let the church say Amen.
Let your spirit say Amen.
Let your fear say Amen.
Let your healing say Amen.

So if you’ve reached a moment —
A quiet pause between what was and what’s next…
A bamboo clearing after a hard climb…

Just breathe.
Take a beat.
Look around.
And say:

Amen.

Because new beginnings are up next.
And it is so.

So many levels to this song.

She starts soft, sweet, unsure.

Then the melody shifts.

So does the mood.

And just like that—the music stops.

I found out Theo died.

Malcolm-Jamal Warner—gone.

I was listening to him sing “Jesus Children” on Robert Glasper’s record when I got the news,

and I felt sick. But then I thought, he lived.

He lived a full life. How beautiful.

You don’t know the day or the time.

It’s what you do with it while you are here.

I heard a pastor say once:

“It’s not the beginning date on the tombstone or the last date that matters. It’s the dash in the middle.”

The dash.

That thin little line between “born” and “gone.”

That’s where the entire story lives.

So the question is—

What are you doing with your dash?

This Week, I Was Given My Flowers

Seeing Cheffany at Lee + White?

That changed me.

That sister allowed me to be seen.

Really seen. She gave me my flowers without a stage or a reason. No spotlight. Just love.

When was the last time you let someone do that for you?

When was the last time you let someone tell you:

“You matter just as much as everyone else.”

“You’re doing good.”

“I see you.”

That conversation made me feel like I could conquer the world.

It was soul food. No plate needed.

Then there was the table talk over coffee.

So real.

So raw.

Burnout. Exhaustion.

Trying to be everything to everyone.

This Table Sermon hit different.

Not because we shouted or cried,

but because we told the truth.

Out loud.

Without apology.

Dreamcasting + Letting Go

This week I’ve been dreamcasting the next 5–10 years.

What I want to build.

Where I want to rest.

Who I want to become.

But in that same breath, I’m releasing:

• Relationships that no longer serve me.

• The need to be perfect.

• The idea that I have to earn rest or grace.

One of my biggest takeaways?

Meet people where they are.

Even if that “people” is me.

Love + The Dash

Love is tricky.

I used to watch women in my life stay in love with men who broke their spirit and wonder why.

Now I know.

Love will have you in blurry spaces.

Confused.

Bound.

Silent.

The same things that would have you cut off a friend in a second

are the same things that’ll make you shut down the world for a partner.

And yet—

Here we are.

Still loving.

Still learning.

This Week at the Table

This week, the table isn’t pristine.

It’s not a tablescape moment or a curated brunch.

It’s honest.

Messy.

Holy.

This week at the table, we’re sitting with:

• The grief of losing Black brilliance.

• The power of being celebrated while still here.

• The grace of burnout honesty.

• The hard truths about love and letting go.

• And the sacredness of the dash in the middle.

Because this is life.

Not just the highlight reel.

But the depth. The questions. The soul stuff.

So if you’re reading this and you feel a little lost,

a little unsure,

a little “Green Eyes” part 2…

Take a breath.

Let the music pause.

You’re still writing your dash.

And that, my love,

is a beautiful thing.