I Finally Gave Myself a Seat

I have sat at a kitchen table for most of my adult life.

Paying bills. Helping with homework. Signing forms. Reviewing things. Planning things. Worrying about things. Occasionally eating — but mostly doing the business of being the person who holds everything together.

The kitchen table is not rest. The kitchen table is the command center. The kitchen table is where I sit to take care of everyone else.

I did not, until very recently, have a chair that was just mine. Just for sitting. Not for working, not for waiting — for the express purpose of being a person who is allowed to occupy space without having to produce anything.

I found the double hammock chair at 2 AM, which is apparently when my best decisions find me.

It hangs from a ceiling hook. It swings slightly if you let it. It is shaped exactly like a hug — deep, curved, wide enough for two. I found a corner of my bedroom that was just storing things nobody had put away, cleared it out, put the hook in the ceiling, and hung the chair.

The first time I sat in it — just sat, no phone, no plan — I started crying.

Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that comes when something you've been holding finally exhales. I have not had a place to just be in longer than I can tell you. And here was a chair that said: you can stop now. Just for a minute. You can stop.

It is wide enough for me. And wide enough for my daughter when she creeps in and says nothing and just sits beside me. Those are some of the best moments we have. Not planned. Not scheduled. Just the chair, and the quiet, and her choosing to be next to me.

My daughter walked in and looked at it and said she wanted one for her room too. I told her when she's older. This one is mine — but she's always welcome in it.

You have spent years sitting at the table for everyone else. You deserve a chair that is just for you. One that swings slightly. One that holds you while you figure out what it feels like to stop moving for ten minutes.

It will feel strange at first. That's normal. You have forgotten how to be still. The stillness is the point.

Here's the link. You've earned it.

Buckle up, buttercup. Find your corner. Hang your chair. Sit in it. You are allowed.