Recently, I hosted a dinner party. In my married days, I frequently organized such gatherings, but once I became single, the thought of entertaining a large group felt overwhelming. I used to feel unfortunate being alone, adrift, and unloved.
During my marriage, I received plenty of dinner invitations, but as a single woman navigating a world filled with primarily coupled fortysomethings, I often felt like a modern-day outcast. My independence was perceived as a threat to societal norms, making me feel like a pariah or, even worse, a woman on the hunt. (Oh, how I wished I could shake some of my married friends when chatting with their husbands, letting them know that while I cherished their partners, I wouldn’t even consider a romantic involvement with them.)
However, spending countless evenings solely with my kids left me yearning for the joy of sharing a few candlelit hours with friends. Since invitations were scarce, I decided it was time to create my own.
A young couple I know—she’s two decades my junior, and he’s a charming young CEO I once interviewed—recently reignited their romance with a little help from me. Their love story was the perfect excuse to prepare a grand meal.
Allow me to clarify: I had played a role in encouraging this young man to pursue the woman he loved, just weeks before her wedding to someone else. Their love inspired me to take action and shape my own life rather than waiting for things to fall into place.
“My late father always said, ‘You make your own luck,’” and as a child, I didn’t grasp his wisdom. I thought luck was simply a matter of chance. However, as I navigated through life’s hurdles, I learned he was right: while luck is one aspect, intention is the glue that binds everything together. It’s about reinforcing the gaps in our lives where fortune can take root.
The guests at my dinner table that night included the rekindled couple and a man I had met on my very first blind date. The courage it took to step out and seek that connection, 24 years after my last date with my ex-husband, still astonishes me. I spent days crafting the perfect text to invite him, feeling nauseous on my way to our meeting. Yet, we ended up talking for hours, bonding over our shared experiences. Eight months later, he has become my closest friend—the first person I turn to with good or bad news. He taught me an invaluable lesson: “Don’t just do something, stand there.”
This phrase became a revelation for me. It suggests that sometimes not reacting is a form of intention. In these times of unraveling, as I navigate my newfound single status and the reactions of friends and family, I have found power in choosing not to engage with negativity.
The other guests at my gathering included a couple I had introduced and some new friends I met through another single friend’s dinner party. I liked one of the women so much that I did something most adults shy away from: I emailed her to express my desire to connect. At 49, admitting to someone, “I like you and want to be friends,” takes a lot of courage. Yet, most people appreciate such openness; we just forget that a world of connections exists outside our comfort zones when we prioritize intention.
As I looked around the table, filled with laughter, candles, and the meal I had lovingly prepared, I experienced a rare moment of clarity and gratitude for my life—flaws and all. I even felt thankful for the challenges I faced, which pushed me to embrace vulnerability, something I had neglected while married.
Then, out of nowhere, my 8-year-old burst into tears after breaking a shelf while trying to climb down from his bunk bed. Toys, books, and remnants of the shelf were scattered everywhere. Ironically, the same thing had happened two years ago, right when I was realizing I could not endure my marriage any longer. At my wedding, we had broken a glass to symbolize life’s fragility; this felt like a different kind of metaphor.
“It’s alright,” I reassured him. “You’re not hurt, and we can clean it up later.”
My best friend, handy with tools, offered to help fix the shelf. After cleaning up, he gathered a knife, glue, and wood, carefully crafting tiny slivers to fill the holes. “Are you sure you want to do this now?” I asked, unsure. But his focused intent showed me that he was committed to the task at hand.
I had procrastinated fixing the previous shelf; I had even drilled new holes, knowing I would be moving soon. “Will that really work?” I questioned, still skeptical. “Absolutely,” he replied—just with a note that my son should avoid walking on it again. As we stood back to admire the repaired shelf, I was amazed. Toothpicks and glue were all it took to mend what seemed broken.
What a simple yet profound lesson: transform problems into solutions. The dining room might still be messy, but we had fixed one small thing with intention, and that was enough for now.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the author’s journey from feeling isolated and unlucky after divorce to finding joy in hosting a dinner party. Through shared experiences, courageous friendships, and small moments of connection, she discovers the power of intention in creating a fulfilling life post-divorce, even amid chaotic moments with her children.