The Banquet of the Beautiful and the Brutal

Witty Banter

Gratitude is one of those words people love to sprinkle around like powdered sugar, light, sweet, and almost too easy to swallow. It appears in Instagram captions, in every cliche postcard, and in those sunset stock photos with quotes written in cursive font. It’s everywhere, and yet it often feels strangely shallow, like it belongs more in greeting cards than in the grit of real life. And yes, I admit, I’ve rolled my eyes at it more than once. But the older I get, the more I realise that gratitude isn’t just about thanking life for the good seats and the easy wins. Real gratitude, the kind that shapes you, is not only for the good, but also for the bad and the ugly. It is for the storm as much as the sunshine, for the slammed doors as much as the open ones, for the silence as much as the music. And perhaps the best way I can describe it is to imagine life not as a path or a journey, but as a long dining table where every guest, welcome or unwelcome, has a place.

The Table of my Life

For the longest time, I didn’t even know I was seated at such a table. I was too used to being served without ever noticing how much had already been laid out for me. I was more comfortable saying “you’re welcome” than “thank you,” because I had been raised in privilege. The kind of privilege that hides itself in plain sight, disguised as normalcy. Safety, love, education, opportunities, support,  these things seemed inevitable, not extraordinary. They were just part of the wallpaper of my life. And because I didn’t recognize them as gifts, I never thought to thank anyone. Gratitude, for me, was invisible, tucked under the tablecloth, waiting for me to grow up enough to notice. Only later did I realise that my table wasn’t empty by default. It was full because invisible hands had carried plates and glasses to it long before I ever sat down. Gratitude, then, began not with what I gained, but with the humility of realising I had been fed long before I learned to cook. Thank you for making me realise.

The Guests who Came and Left

At my table, there were guests who brought laughter and love. They sat across from me with eyes that made me feel seen, voices that wrapped around my heart like warm blankets, gestures that made the air shimmer. For a while, their presence made the entire table glow, and the world felt lighter simply because they were there. But then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they stood up and walked away. Some left quietly, leaving only half-empty glasses. Others stormed off, knocking chairs as they went, leaving behind the ache of disruption. Their departures hurt, and I found myself staring at empty seats that seemed to echo louder than the voices that once filled them. And yet, I cannot deny my gratitude. Their presence, however brief, was a course in the feast of my life. They gave me flavours I had never known, taught me textures of love and joy, and even in their absence, they left behind aftertastes that linger. Gratitude is not about demanding permanence it is about recognising the beauty of what was, even if it no longer is. Thank you for coming into my life, even if only for a fleeting moment.

The Ones Who Stayed & The Wildcards

But then, there are the guests who never left. They didn’t arrive with fireworks, nor did they make a grand entrance. They simply sat down and, quietly, faithfully, stayed. They are the ones who refill my glass without asking, who pass the bread without ceremony, who sit in silence with me when conversation runs dry. Their loyalty doesn’t announce itself. It hums like background music, steady and comforting. They remind me that gratitude is not only for grand gestures but also for the quiet consistencies, the unspoken acts of care. And yet, no feast is ever complete without the uninvited guests, heartbreak, failure, grief, loneliness. They arrive without knocking, sit in the best chairs, and spill wine all over the tablecloth. They ruin the mood, make you want to leave your own dinner party. And yet, over time, I have learned that even these unwelcome visitors serve their purpose. Heartbreak taught me to recognize the contours of love. Failure stripped away illusions and offered humility. Loneliness forced me to sit with myself until I understood who I was without distraction. Grief carved hollows in me that later became space for compassion. Their dishes are bitter, their flavours sharp, but without them, the feast would be flat. Gratitude does not mean pretending to like them, it means acknowledging that they, too, fed me, and for that, however painfully, I am thankful. Thank you for giving me the sucker punch (quite literally).

Why Thank the Unwanted?

Because gratitude is not about liking every dish on the table. It is about realising that every flavour, sweet, bitter, sour, salty, is part of what makes the meal unforgettable. Sweet moments give us joy. Bitter moments give us strength. Sour moments wake us up. Salt preserves us, reminding us of what endures. To thank only the sweet is to ignore the complexity of the whole. Life is not a curated tasting menu. It is a chaotic banquet where everything, even the unpleasant, has its place. And without it all, I would not be who I am. Gratitude, then, is not blind optimism. It is radical acceptance. Thank you for teaching me to accept.

The Feast of Everything

So when I say “thank you” now, I don’t just mean it for the obvious blessings, the laughter, the successes, the embraces. I also mean it for the painful exits, the quiet nights of doubt, the messy mistakes that left stains I thought I could never wash out. I mean it for the moments that hollowed me, because those hollows made room for something new. Gratitude is not the art of pretending everything is beautiful. It is the courage to admit that everything belongs, the beautiful, the brutal, and everything in between. Life is not a polite dinner party where only the invited sit down. It is a feast, chaotic and wild, where every guest, whether cherished or cursed, adds to the story of the meal. And so, I lift my glass not just to the guests I welcomed, but also to the ones I didn’t. Because in their own strange ways, they all fed me. And gratitude, in the end, is nothing more than the quiet courage to whisper:

thank you, all of you, for coming. 

Thank you for coming, whether fleeting or long,
A verse in my story, a note in my song.
Your presence, your leaving, both shaped who I am, 

A whisper, a lesson, a gift in my hands.