The Solo Table: A Study in Personal Taste

On slowing down, refilling your own cup, and the art of the intentional "No."

When was the last time you chose something because you truly liked it—and not because you saw it somewhere else?

That question has been sitting with me, quietly but persistently. It’s the kind of thought that doesn’t demand attention, but lingers just long enough to force an honest answer. Because when I really think about it, everything around us is designed to keep us consuming. Everything is curated, positioned, and presented to make decision-making feel effortless. Social media tells us what to wear, where to go, what to eat, and how to decorate our lives—and most of the time, it arrives polished enough that we don’t even think to question it. We just choose.

That’s what marketing does: it influences. It’s the digital version of those small impulse buys at the grocery store checkout line—placed right in your path while you wait. You didn’t come for it, but you take it anyway. Not because you needed it, but because it was simply there.

Over time, that becomes a way of living. You adapt, you adopt, and you consume—until one day you realize you’ve been choosing from what was placed in front of you instead of asking yourself what you actually like.

Lately, looking back at my own life, that’s exactly how it felt. Not stillness, but autopilot. And I don’t think it starts with not knowing what you like; I think it starts earlier than that. It starts with not knowing yourself. Because if you don’t know who you are, how could you possibly know your taste?

I think this becomes even clearer when you’ve experienced a rupture in a relationship—and I don’t just mean the romantic kind. I mean anything that shaped your daily life: friendships, family, environments, routines. When those things shift or fall apart, you’re left standing in a version of your life that no longer fits.

If you take the time to sit with that—not just what happened, but what you learned—you begin to see something clearly: so much of what we do is shaped by what surrounds us. Our preferences, our habits, our pace... even the way we think. Relationships shape it. Survival shapes it. Trends shape it. The environment shapes it. And when those things change, you’re left trying to figure out what is actually yours.

That has been a very real part of this season for me. Everything got quiet. And in that quiet, I started noticing how many things in my life either never belonged to me or no longer did. I would go through my pantry and ask myself, “Why do I even have this?” I would reach for something and realize, “I don’t even like this.”

Once I allowed myself to be honest, letting things go became easier. Not just the food, but the habits, the routines, the conversations, and the expectations—even versions of myself.

For years, I was making decisions for a household—shopping, planning, and accommodating different appetites and rhythms. Somewhere in that, I came last. So when life shifted and it became just me, I remember standing in my kitchen, eating Cheerios and bananas, thinking: What do I actually like? The truth was, I didn’t know.

That’s when I realized something important: taste is more than aesthetic. It’s personal. It’s lived. It’s felt. It’s not just what you wear or how your home looks; taste is what you gravitate toward—what your body feels safe in. It’s how your life feels to you.

For me, I’ve learned that I like calm. I like quiet mornings, soft music, and long walks after the rain. I like the smell of the air in autumn, candles, and unrushed time. I like not having to perform. I like not being needed every second. I like peace. I didn’t realize how much that mattered until I slowed down enough to feel it.

Learning your taste requires slowing down. It requires you to stop moving so fast that you never hear yourself. For me, that looked like small things—sitting with my tea, leaving the TV off, and just listening. To myself, to my body, to God. That quiet used to make people uncomfortable. Now, I understand what it was: I was finally listening.

Even something as simple as coffee showed me that. I love coffee, but after a couple of months without it, I ordered a cup and noticed my body had gotten used to something softer. Tea. Stillness. Gentler mornings. That mattered.

The same thing happened with my solo dinners. At first, they felt lonely. If I’m honest, they hurt. I had spent so much time pouring into others that when my own cup was empty, I realized I had to be the one to refill it. That was a hard realization—not because I expected anything in return, but because it showed me where I had abandoned myself.

So, I created something new: The Solo Table for One.

Not as a performance, and not as content, but as a decision. I refused to remain broken in a place where I was healing. I bought new pieces—a charger plate, a wine glass, a teacup—because they held no emotional ties to what I was letting go of. When I sat down and plated my food, I felt the shift.

Now, everything feels intentional. My dinners, my shopping, my time, and my energy. I no longer consume the way I used to; I choose based on what supports my life now—not the life I used to live.

I’ve also stopped outsourcing my decisions. I used to process everything out loud with others first. Now? I go to God first. I say everything I need to say without interruption or noise. If I choose to share it later, I can—but I’ve already heard my own voice clearly.

There is still discomfort in this process—in not knowing, being unsure, and the trying of things only to realize you don’t like them. But I’ve made peace with that. Because if I don’t try... I’ll never know.

I’m learning that I don’t have to like what everyone else likes. I’m learning that my pace is my own. I’m learning that consistency is about showing up, not being perfect. I’m learning that I am allowed to explore.

Most importantly, I’m learning that I can build a life that actually feels like mine. I’m not trying to build a perfect life; I’m learning how to build an honest one. And that begins here—with learning my taste.

So the question becomes… What in your life actually feels like you?

With love, always — La O.