What Do You Actually Bring to the Table?
Lately, I’ve been struggling to write.
Everything feels too heavy — too much to hold, let alone articulate.
Genocide.
Racial violence.
The bulldozing of the White House — both literal and symbolic.
The illegal, inhumane rounding up of immigrants.
Every headline feels like a blow to the spirit.
And as someone who’s spent her life finding meaning in words, I’ve been sitting in the discomfort of silence — not because I don’t have something to say, but because everything I could say feels inadequate against the weight of what’s happening.
But maybe that’s exactly where this reflection comes from — that quiet reckoning with how much we carry, and what we choose to bring to the spaces we enter.
I had a friend once.
Daniel couldn’t stand her.
He’d look at me and shake his head, muttering something like, “You always bringing home broken birds.”
He wasn’t wrong. My heart has always been too big — a magnet for people trying to find themselves, patch themselves, or sometimes, simply use someone else’s warmth to avoid their own cold.
Daniel would tell me, “You see things in people who got nothing to offer.”
And he wasn’t wrong about that either.
I believed — and still do — that if people are seen, truly seen, and lifted, they can do great things.
I’m living proof of that. Daniel was, too.
We both came from hard lessons and somehow, through grace and grit, found our way to each other and to purpose.
But here’s the thing about belief: it only works if you believe, too.
Someone else can see your light, but if you keep blowing out your own flame, what good does it do?
This friend of mine used to always talk about what she brought to the table.
She’d say it like it was a badge of honor, a declaration of worth —
“I know what I bring to the table.”
But every time she said it, I’d find myself wondering:
What table?
And what, exactly, is she bringing?
Because too often, people mistake attitude for value.
They think showing up loud is the same as showing up whole.
They think knowing your worth means demanding things you haven’t earned.
But bringing something to the table isn’t about ego or aesthetics.
It’s about contribution. It’s about integrity.
It’s about what you leave behind when you get up.
Daniel used to say, “You can’t eat off potential.”
And that’s the truth.
Potential looks good on paper, but it doesn’t nourish a thing.
What matters is who you are in practice —
not just what you think you deserve, but what you’re willing to give, build, and grow.
I’ve learned that love, friendship, and even purpose are partnerships.
Everyone has to bring something real — not just talk about it, not just posture about it.
You bring your honesty. Your discipline. Your follow-through. Your effort.
You bring your brokenness, too, but with the intention of healing — not using others as crutches while refusing to stand.
So now, when someone says, “I know what I bring to the table,”
I quietly ask myself: Do you?
Because I’ve learned that the table is sacred.
And I don’t mind pulling up a chair —
but only if what you’re bringing is real.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe the same question applies beyond our personal tables.
To our country.
Our communities.
Our humanity.
What do we bring to the table — when children are starving, when voices are silenced, when injustice is normalized?
Are we bringing compassion? Accountability? Truth? Or are we just showing up to take, to perform, to consume?
Maybe the real revolution starts in how we gather.
How we see each other.
How we choose to show up — not for ego or optics, but for collective survival.
Because whether it’s the kitchen table or the table of democracy, the principle is the same:
if we all stop bringing something real, the table collapses.