Stories at Sobremesa is a collection of transitions, not always the clean, clearly defined kind, because transitions rarely are. They overlap. They contradict each other. They make us into different versions of ourselves, sometimes all at once. And it's those in-between versions that make the best story lines.
Every woman has a story worth telling.
Every story tells a version of herself.
And every version deserves a seat at the table.
Stories at Sobremesa are curated for women by women of all seasons, of all versions.
I'm Lori. For those of you that don't know me, I'm the founder of La Mesa. Let me tell you some of the versions of myself that have led me here.
The Leap
I was 35. I knew I needed to leave my full-time role. Within a week I had three small potential contracts lined up. No guarantees. And yet the uncertainty felt safer than staying. That's the thing about keeping yourself in unhealthy environments. Eventually they make uncertainty look like freedom. That wasn't the first time I chose uncertainty over misalignment. And it wouldn't be the last.
I was 25, standing on my driveway in a t-shirt and skirt, no shoes, my little kitten in my arms, locked out by my partner when I ran out to grab the tiny kitten that had run out the door. After another heated argument, the kind where the landlord had already asked if he needed to call the police. A woman walking by stopped, took one look at me, and asked if I needed help. She could see through the dried tears on my face that there was more. She told me to follow her. Turns out there was a house for women just down the street. I hadn't known it was there. I told them some of it. Not all of it. They said I could stay the night. I said I was ok, mostly because I would have rather believed that than the alternative. I kept going. That's what I always did.
I was 37, eight weeks pregnant and bleeding that morning. Staring at the ceiling while the ER doctor tried to find a heartbeat. They couldn't. Two hours later I was at a networking event. Name tag on. Numb. I even told a friend and she looked at me like, why are you even here? I told myself: "Others have fared worse. March on." A week later, I turned 38. I kept going.
I was 39. My dad was fighting cancer. I was pregnant, for the first time past the 12-week mark. We were launching the first public beta of my first startup. What I didn't understand was how much of my momentum was grief. If I kept moving, I didn't have to stop. Then came the three Saturdays. Saturday: my dad died. The following Saturday: his service. The Saturday after that: my son was born, almost a month early. You move through things because you have to. People call that resilience. But really, what other option was there?
It was a home birth. At hour sixteen, no pain medication, awake for over 30 hours. My midwife looked at me and said: "You're very stoic." I took it as a compliment. It would take me years to understand what she was actually seeing. The mask was so deeply attached I had forgotten I was wearing one. Stoic. Capable. Fine. Always fine.
My 40th birthday. The start of Covid. I cried into my prosecco and cake, with a feeling I'd been carrying for a long time. I had never felt so unseen, and it wasn't the isolation of the pandemic. I just knew. Things weren't going to change. And at that time, I wasn't sure if I was ok with that.
I was 43. First session with a coach. Struggling, in debt, company barely moving, a young child, and in a very misaligned relationship.
She said: "You're not a victim of your own life."
And there it was. The permission I needed. Gradually I understood that the way I'd been coping — the mask, the stoicism, the figuring it out alone — that wasn't strength. It was simply the only option I had ever given myself.
And I started listening to my inner wisdom. It had been quiet for so long.
Oh look. She's remembering who she is.
Then it started to whisper.
"This will dim your light."
"Talk to that person."
And then the big one:
"Move to Spain."
For years I thought strength meant carrying everything myself. Not asking for help. Not complaining about it. Silently enduring.
The woman on the driveway. The woman after the miscarriage. The woman grieving her father. The woman building companies. The woman moving across an ocean. Every version of me thought that's what survival looked like.
What I needed wasn't more endurance. And those experiences — they weren't distractions to the real story. They were important parts of the story. Every one of them shaped the woman who would eventually see the vision of La Mesa. Not despite them. But because of them.
I've lived through more than my share of 11th hours, and each time I thought "this was it, the 11th hour," a bigger one would show up.
When people are in hard seasons we say: "You'll get through this." And they're right. But survival is not the goal. Resilience is not the prize.
Resilience is the floor. Not the ceiling.
The ceiling is joy. Connection. Being witnessed. Having space held for you. Finding a place where you can arrive exactly as you are, where nobody expects you to have all the answers, where someone says: Sit down. Stay awhile. Let me hold some of this with you.
For most of my life, I thought the goal was becoming someone who could handle anything. Now I think the goal is becoming someone who doesn't have to.
You shouldn't have to just survive. You should get to linger. To be nourished. To enjoy being able to sit at the table long after the meal is done, and finally, finally, feel like that time or season was well spent.
Currently, I am living in Spain. Co-parenting. Building something new. Figuring out life as I go. Still listening to the whispers.
The latest whisper was: "Tell your story."
That's what Stories at Sobremesa is. A collection of women remembering the versions of themselves that brought them here.
And if any version of you recognizes herself in these pages, we'd love to hear yours.
Lori Muñoz · Founder, La Mesa & BrokersOfGood · joinlamesa.co