This is what it’s all about.

My daughter was able to explain it so much better than I ever could…

Every Sunday, I set the table for dinner with my family. Only, this family doesn’t look like me. The man to my left doesn’t have my nose, but I know his jokes like he was my dad. The woman across from me isn’t in any of my family albums, but her kind hands have comforted me when I scraped my knee. I know everyone’s laughs by heart, even though they all inherited it from different ancestors than mine.

Four years ago my mom began to host dinners at our house every Sunday. Instead of cooking traditional meals, we choose a different region of the world to cook a dish from. Morocco, Argentina, South Africa; all from my home. Our friends and neighbors come over every Sunday to end the week off with warm conversation and culture. What had started as a small household activity quickly became a weekly tradition for many.

Through these dinners, we have unintentionally curated a bond, a family. “Food is meant to be shared”, my mom always says. Every joke and second serving is always shared, and for a few hours everyone forgets. It doesn’t matter that tomorrow is Monday, or that there’ll be a mountain of dishes to clean after dinner (which is always a daunting task). At 6, we crowd around our small dining room table. We never have enough chairs, so we frequently have to use stools and desk chairs. No one minds much, because it’s the company that matters. The smiling faces that surround me are bright with gratitude. Here, everyone is safe and welcome. This is the household my mom intended for my sister and I. And because we didn’t always have that, it’s the greatest value I hold.

Prior to our weekly dinners, our Sundays were quiet and isolated. I spent much of the day worrying about chores and the arduous week ahead. After the day had crept by, my small family would share a meal at the table. Back then, our table seemed so vast– three plates didn’t quite take up space. Despite our small household, eating as a family was something that was taught to me as a little girl. There was no such thing as taking a plate to eat in your room. While I was fortunate enough to have been taught to share meals with my family, something had always felt a little incomplete.

As my parents immigrated to the US, most of our family members were left seas away. My family and I had always had a hard time fitting into our area, lacking a community despite our efforts. One Sunday, a friend came over for dinner. We experimented by cooking a dish from Turkey. After dinner, he suggested that we invite our next door neighbors the following Sunday. Unknowingly, we had started a tradition that would have our table packed with countless plates weekly.

As I prepare the table every week, my heart shines with gratitude for every place I set. Now, my Sundays are filled with laughter and quality time. Being surrounded by an array of people has taught me the importance of community, and that family is ultimately what you make of it. Carrying these lessons with me, I hope to continue contributing to building spaces where people feel welcome and safe, regardless of where I find myself next.