Waffle House

Every coven needs a meeting place. Ours just happened to smell like coffee, hash browns, and cigarette smoke that had seeped into the walls decades before we ever arrived.

The cowboy loved Waffle House because it was the only place that never messed up his eggs. He ordered the same breakfast every single time, as predictable as the sunrise. There was comfort in that. In a world that never stopped changing, he knew exactly what would be waiting for him when he slid into that booth.

We spent countless mornings there. Sometimes we talked about everything—dreams, fears, old wounds, the shape of our futures. Sometimes we hardly spoke at all. We just sat together, sipping coffee and watching the world wake up through the windows.

I've learned that silence is its own kind of conversation.

Not everyone earns access to your silence. Not everyone can sit across from you without demanding entertainment, reassurance, or constant noise. The rare ones can simply be present. They make stillness feel safe.

That cowboy was one of the rare ones.

He had a way of seeing me that I could never quite manage on my own. When I focused on my flaws, he noticed my heart. When I picked apart my mistakes, he pointed to my strength. He saw every strange little quirk, every scar, every sharp edge, and somehow loved me more for them.

He used to tell me he wished I could see myself through his eyes.

Maybe that's one of the greatest gifts we can give each other—to hold up a mirror that reflects something kinder than the one we carry ourselves.

So if life ever introduces you to a soul who feels like home, don't be afraid to lean in. Listen to their stories. Share your own. Sit with them in the quiet. Let them remind you who you are when you've forgotten.

And if you're looking for a sacred place to do all that, don't overlook the magic hidden in ordinary things.

Sometimes a coven gathers around a fire.

Sometimes it gathers in a Waffle House booth before sunrise.

I took this photo on one of our many trips here.