Yesterday when I sat down to write my blog, the words felt stuck in my fingers and my memories were loud in my head.
I had just struggled to write The Table That I Built. In my mind, it started as a powerful, liberating act of refusing to wait for an invitation and instead creating a space of my own.
But as I wrote, something unexpected happened. I started remembering all of the tables that excluded me. Then the writing got heavy; and, I sat on the struggle bus for hours yesterday.
While I was on the bus, all of those emotions surfaced. You know what was worse than being excluded? The tables that only wanted me there because of what box I checked.
✅ Disabled
✅ Black
✅ Female
✅ LGBTQ Identified
✅ Educator
✅ GA POST Certified Officer
✅ Grant Writer
✅ Parent of an autistic child
I check boxes that, on paper, prove representation. But in reality, they often perform acrobatics.
Yesterday, as I stared at the screen, my soul finally whispered what it had been trying to tell me for a long time.
It said, “I’m tired.”
Tired of sitting at the performance table.
Tired of being tolerated for optics.
Tired of being invited for visibility but never for vision.
As I moved from seat to seat on that struggle bus, that’s when I realized what I really want.
I want to sit at the preference table.
The table where people prefer my presence because of who I am, not what I represent.
Performance Tables
Performance tables are easy to spot once you learn the signs.
They are the rooms that celebrate you for showing up but never for speaking up.
The meetings where your lived experience is praised in the introduction but ignored in the decision-making.
The partnerships that highlight diversity in the brochure but silence difference in the boardroom.
You know you’re at a performance table when you are the “only.”
The only Black woman.
The only queer person.
The only voice saying, “This doesn’t feel right.”
Performance tables love the idea of you.
But they rarely love the truth of you.
They want your story, but not your strategy.
Your perspective, but not your power.
And when you sit at those tables long enough, you start to confuse presence with purpose. You start believing that being included is the same as being valued.
But inclusion without influence is performance.
Representation without respect is decoration.
The Quiet Burnout of Representation
What no one tells you about being “the only” in a room is how exhausting it can be.
You smile when you want to scream.
You translate your truth into words that won’t ruffle feathers.
You become fluent in reading energy because survival depends on it.
People call it grace.
But grace without truth is just quiet suffering.
There was a time when I wore that kind of grace like armor.
I was the one who could “navigate” hard spaces, the one who made others feel safe while I quietly absorbed every sting of being unseen.
That’s what performance tables teach you — to smile through erasure.
But lately, I’ve been asking myself a different question.
What if belonging doesn’t require performing?
What if the real measure of inclusion isn’t how many seats are filled, but how many souls feel free?
The Preference Table
The preference table feels different.
At the preference table, you are not a checkbox. You are a choice.
You are not tolerated. You are treasured.
At the preference table, people don’t need you to dilute your truth or justify your worth.
You can show up fully human (brilliant, flawed, evolving) and still be welcomed.
These are the spaces where your ideas are met with curiosity, not caution.
Where your lived experience is seen as wisdom, not liability.
Where difference isn’t tokenized; it’s trusted.
The preference table doesn’t demand performance. It invites presence.
And the first preference table you ever build is the one inside yourself.
The one where you stop inviting shame to sit at the head.
The one where you choose peace over proving.
The one where you look at your own reflection and say, “I prefer her.”
Building the Preference Table
Building a preference table requires courage because it means saying no to invitations that look good on paper but don’t feel good in your body.
It means walking away from rooms that value your resume more than your rest.
It means refusing to be the diversity hire for someone else’s guilt.
And it means accepting that not every table deserves your truth.
I used to think power came from being everywhere, from being the one who could do it all and represent it all.
But now I understand that power lives in discernment.
The ability to say, “This is not my table.”
That’s liberation.
What I’ve Learned
When I think about all the performance tables I’ve sat at, I don’t carry bitterness anymore. I carry clarity.
Because every performance table showed me what I don’t want.
They taught me what exhaustion feels like when you mistake inclusion for belonging.
They taught me that silence might protect your reputation, but it starves your soul.
Now, I listen differently.
I can tell the difference between applause and alignment.
Between tolerance and truth.
Between being needed and being known.
The preference table feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.
How To Know What Table You’re Sitting At
If you’re not sure whether you’re at a performance table or a preference table, pay attention to how you feel when you leave.
Ask yourself:
Did I feel seen or showcased?
If they only acknowledged your identity and not your insight, it was performance.Did I speak freely or carefully?
If you had to translate your truth to make others comfortable, it was performance.Did I feel energized or emptied?
Your energy never lies. If you leave drained, it wasn’t alignment.Did they ask you to be part of the solution or just part of the photo?
One builds legacy. The other builds optics.
And if you realize you’ve been sitting at a performance table, it’s okay.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation for leaving.
You just owe yourself permission to find better.
What I’m Practicing
These days, I am practicing preference in everything. Not just in rooms, but also in relationships, collaborations, and conversations.
If peace leaves the room, so do I.
If authenticity can’t breathe, I won’t stay to suffocate beside it.
If my presence is treated like a prop, I pack up my purpose and take it somewhere it can grow.
That’s not pride. That’s self-respect.
Because I’ve learned that sometimes, you don’t have to build a new table. You just have to stop showing up to the wrong one.
Final Reflection
The performance table taught me how to endure.
The preference table is teaching me how to expand.
It’s teaching me that I don’t have to be “the only” to be extraordinary.
That I can lead with truth and still be loved.
That real belonging doesn’t ask me to shrink.
And that’s the freedom I want for everyone who’s ever been told they’re too much, too loud, too different.
Because you’re not too much.
You’re just at the wrong table.
My Words Matter
Writing these reflections helps me remember that my worth was never meant to be performative.
If this piece reminds you to leave the performance table and seek spaces that prefer your presence, I invite you to become a paid subscriber and help this work reach others who are learning to sit in truth instead of tolerance.
