The Matriarchal Table
Honoring legacy, chosen family, and the magic of gathering

In this heartfelt reflection, I share the roots of a new ritual—monthly dinners in my home that echo the Sundays I spent at my grandmother’s house. From blackberry-stained summers and sledding adventures to the quiet grief of family estrangement and the joy of chosen kin, this piece is about becoming the matriarch I needed, and building a table where everyone is welcome.

We don’t have to be perfect to be held. We just have to show up.

Last week, I had the rare opportunity to spend a few days alone while my partner and child were away for spring break. I took time off to focus on myself—something that feels like a luxury these days—and decided it was the perfect moment to shift the energy in our home and create a sanctuary that invites rest, connection, and nourishment.

As the days grow longer and the air begins to shift, many of us feel the pull of spring. We’re eager to dig our hands into the earth, dream of wildflower blooms, and plan picnics in the park. The world is waking up, and with it comes our own urge to move, create, and stretch toward what’s next.

But the early days of spring are not a time to rush. The ground is still tender. The buds are still forming. Just as we wouldn’t force a seedling to bloom before its time, we must learn to trust the pace of growth, both in nature and in ourselves.

This morning, I walked my kid to school under a steady Portland drizzle, the kind that seeps into your clothes and lingers in your bones. But even in the damp chill, signs of spring were everywhere—camellias and daffodils blooming bright against the gray, crocuses pushing up through the earth in our yard. The crows, ever watchful, were busy nesting in our budding magnolia tree. Even on the coldest mornings, the season is shifting, bringing new energy with it.