In my memory, our family dinners were chaotic.

As one of four siblings with a 10-year age range from the oldest (me) to youngest (my youngest sister) with another brother and sister in the middle, the daily ritual was less about food and more about trying to thread the needle of our impossibly complicated schedules, my father traveled a lot for work, my mom taught at the elementary school. We all had sports, friends, and activities.

So, the act of nightly ‘gathering’ was fraught with challenges.

When my sisters were little, I remember that inevitably, no matter where I sat, I’d have milk spilled on me. One time, fed up with the frequent dousing, I picked up the remaining ¼ cup of liquid and dumped it on the head of the offending sibling before storming off to my room.

What did we eat? Other than birthday dinners and holidays, the latter of which was held with great pomp and circumstance at the Dining Room table, complete with Fancy China and candlesticks, I remember meatloaf and casseroles and almost always pasta on Fridays because Dad didn’t typically have pasta on the road. We often had green salads we’d douse with Ranch, Thousand Island, or Western dressing. Side note: Do they make Western dressing anymore?

But more important than the food, it was our opportunity to be together, chaos or not, even briefly, and to check in. How was the spelling test? Who is the latest crush we can tease you about? What’s going on with friend drama?

When I was in college and in the years after I left home, when I returned, I often sat at the kitchen counter and talked to my mom as she cooked. I’d set the table without being asked, and when I was more grown up, we’d have a glass of wine together, laughing over some crazy family story or another. Even though I took them for granted as an adolescent, these dinners were what I missed most when I was away. Sitting over a gray tray of lukewarm, bland dorm cafeteria food, I felt a wave of homesick nausea. I longed for my family, the wooden salad bowls we always used, the random topics we discussed, and even the spilled milk. My despair was overwhelming.

Speaking of despair: As I’m writing this, the election was just last week. Like many I knew, the loss of the Harris/Walz campaign was a devastating blow. I went through the day on Wednesday in a fog of emotions – confusion, sadness, disbelief, anger, frustration, grief, fear – and then it was dinner time.

Dinner falls under my job description in my home, and I usually enjoy it. I plan for the week and grocery shop in a giant session, attempting to stock up enough milk, fruit, veggies, and protein for a week of lunches and dinners.

Last week, I planned to serve Tim Walz’s ‘award-winning’ hot dish as part of what I hoped would be a victory celebration on Wednesday night. His concoction features bratwurst cooked in beer and onions, chopped up, and added to a cheese and mushroom soup mixture with celery and cheese, topped with tater tots, and yes, even more cheese. It’s a classic Minnesotan recipe, and if a bit lacking in seasoning for my taste (Coach Tim isn’t one for too many herbs and spices, it seems), it sounded warm and comforting.

By Wednesday evening, I needed some comfort.

That evening, I assembled said hotdish, set the table, brought out my own set of wooden salad bowls, and served my boys’ dinner. We sat in silence for a little while, each of us lost in our own thoughts, me fighting back the urge to put my head down at the table and weep. Eventually, we started talking, and we made it through dinner together. That night, I collapsed into an exhausted lump and fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day, somehow, the sun came up again. I got up early and worked out as I do most days. I got my kids off to school, went to work, and took an afternoon walk when I cried with my neighbors who I’d met in passing before. Now, we shared common grief and exchanged names, hugs, condolences, and promises to stay strong and connected.

At the Great American Dinner table, I’m sure many families are grappling with much more than we are. Fear of deportation and family separation. Concern about reproductive freedom. Terror that their very identities and relationships are in peril because of a fascist, jingoistic, homophobic regime in the Executive Branch and elsewhere. My heart breaks for my friends and family suffering through these impending violations of personal liberty.

It helps me to remember that Democracy, like family dinners, is an imperfect thing. There are spills, arguments, laughter, and sometimes even silence. Yet, just as we return to the table, we return to the shared work of living together, of showing up for each other despite the mess. These dinners remind me that, while democracy is rarely flawless, it’s still vital—holding space for us to connect, disagree, comfort, and find common ground. And maybe that’s what matters most: We keep returning to the table, imperfectly.

At the dinner table, we find strength in these small acts of resilience. With each meal we share and each time we reach out to comfort or listen, we’re reminded that hope doesn’t have to be grand or flawless. Sometimes, it’s simply about creating space for one another and moving forward together, ready to try again tomorrow.

No, I’m not giving up. We’ve seen hard times and risen together, even when it’s taken everything we have to keep moving forward. To everyone who believes in a brighter day, know there’s room at our table. Each meal we share and each story we tell reminds us that, together, we’re stronger and more resilient than any struggle ahead.

See you at the table.