Substack is my dinner party, and I've got a seat with your name on it. 🍾

“Oh you have a Substack!? What do you write about?”

Ugh. Shit.

Each time, I freeze.

Like someone has caught me mid awkward dash from the bathroom to bedroom of the shared AirBNB where I’m naked because I forgot my towel and I swear I’ll be fast enough that nobody will see me, but they do, and then I have to EXPLAIN my awkward nude Dobby scurry down the hallway–but I can’t find the words to accurately convey the situatio–HALP. 😆

(No? You don’t know what I’m talking about? Lucky you.)

Anyway, that’s what getting this question feels like to me. Not because I don’t know what I write about, but because summing anything up in a neat elevator speech has never been a talent I possess.

(Story of my life. I feel like nothing about it or ME has ever been able to fit into a sound bite or mould!?)

Which is probably why I painfully avoid ever asking anyone what they do for a living, because I know the question will be turned back on me. And, well, you know …*as I’ve explained*

I’m not good with short, concise answers. (What gave it away?!)

It’s fine–back to the question at hand!

“What is this Substack even about, Jess?!”

I’ve spent a lot of time mulling over this question. How to sum up what this space is, and what it feels like.

But, for the first time, instead of trying to naked shimmy down that hallway again, I (FINALLY) have a much better idea:

Come over for dinner.

Yes, I would like to invite you to my proverbial online dinner party that is my Substack. Welcome.

Because why tell you what you can expect here, when I can show you?

The sound of laughter floats in from the dining room.

(Also, what is that incredible candle???)

You read the energy of the room and smile, because you instinctively know there will be no talk of *the weather* tonight. ✨

You catch another woman’s eye who is wearing your exact shoes…

“THE GAP JELLIES!” you both exclaim.

You are absolutely elated to catch a whiff of Vodka Sawce simmering on the stove. (Because while I could’ve chosen something to make ahead that didn’t shackle me to the stove–why would I choose the path of least resistance when I could choose VODKA SAWCE? 😆)

I find my way to you through the kitchen doorway (the burn wasn’t that bad, don’t worry!) and throw my arms around you–because we’re finally meeting in real life! I’m so happy you’re here!

I hand you a glass of a perfectly chilled light red (or would you prefer tea? or bubbles!?) and your own mini bowl of potato chips, and you continue on, munching and making your way around the room, everyone introducing themselves by way of hugs.

Then it’s time to find a chair, sit down, and get comfortable.

If I were a betting woman…I’d wager that this is the kind of conversation we’ll find ourselves immersed in. (You know, when you don’t realize three hours have passed until you have to pee SO BAD?)

Someone pulls out her phone to show everyone swatches of wallpaper for her bathroom, and it turns into a discussion of how decorating her new house has been the best exercise in choosing herself and what feels authentic to her, rather than whatever is the most tasteful or trendy on Pinterest.

“Oh my gosh, when you’re in Barcelona, there’s this divey champagne bar you have to go to–let me look up the name–and the owner has the CUTEST DOG.”

Someone else admits, exasperated, “the whole packing a school lunch thing is REALLY stressing me out!!” but it was really just a gateway question into a discussion about the stories we tell ourselves and the invisible standards we hold ourselves to in motherhood. (And how we’re working on dismantling them. 🔪)

“Wait–share more about that? What’s your intuition telling you?”

“Am I the only one still fucked up from reading Yesteryear?!”

Someone else just got divorced and came home from a trip abroad and it cracked open something inside of her she’s been unwilling to acknowledge for a decade and she’s not quite sure how to process it all.

“But really…do you think as a society we can ever truly get back to a matriarchy?”

“OMG yes I need to order Caroline Chambers new cookbook! Thanks for reminding me!”

The tarot cards come out. We go clockwise pulling cards. We gasp. We cry. We shriek. We consider the chapters we are trying so hard to close. Yes, you DO need to leave that guy–of course you pulled the Seven of Swords!

“Am I the only one in a weird liminal-space / who am I / what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-life chapter?”

Every hand shoots up in the air.

Advice, tips, and recommendations are passed around the table as enthusiastically as the bowl of freshly grated parmesan.

“…I feel like we should start like, a women’s church–but without religion, do you know what I mean??”

“What’s your rising sign? Your Human Design?”

Another shares this week's conversation with her therapist and how she's beginning to see just how much her perfectionism has been getting in the way of enjoying motherhood.

“Let me text my mom, I don’t know my birth time!!”

Someone is grieving her parents’ declining health. Another shares what she learned living through her own similar experience.

Many pairs of watery eyes meet in understanding across the table.

Another admits she’s recently realized she’s been climbing the wrong career ladder her whole life to satisfy her parents’ expectations, not her own. And she has no idea what to do about it.

“I wonder if…”

“Wow. I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Yes. Take the first step. No, you don’t have to have all the answers first!”

100 different conversations swirling at once. Or are they that different after all? Don’t they all have the same undercurrent?

“I thought I was the only one…”

“…I’ve never been able to put that into words.”

“Oh wow. That’s such a great point.”

Not even the small talk feels small.

As I look around this table, I realize these stories will never just stay in this room. They will all come home with us.

Not because we’ve all lived such similar lives, or gone through the same things

but because there’s something magical that happens when someone is willing to share the truth about their own experience:

It gives the rest of us new language for our own.

In hearing one woman’s story, we don’t just understand her better. We suddenly understand something about ourselves we hadn’t been able to put into words before.

The bottle is empty. The candles are persevering through the last few drops of their wax.

We look around conspiratorially at one another.

OKAY FINE JUST ONE MORE. Nobody is driving!!

The cork pops. The wine splashes into one more round of glasses. Clinking.

Nobody expected this night to go so late, but it feels so good. To be with others who fully see you, understand, and are going through it too.

A neighbor passes by on the sidewalk, seeing all of us laughing through the window and texts me:

“Big reunion?”

She has no idea we’ve never met before tonight.

So…that’s what this Substack is. Or maybe more accurately, that's what I hope it always feels like to be here.

If this sounds like the table you’d like to sit at, I’ll always have a seat for you. ♥️

Thank you so much for coming to my dinner party.

See you next week??

xoxo

Jess

P.S.S….I think maybe I need to start hosting ACTUAL Substack subscriber dinner parties now?!?!?!