Walking into the Bostwick Social House or the Bison Café on any given evening, I see it without really looking for it. Tables filled with friends leaning into conversations, people laughing over half-finished plates, someone waving another person over to join them. And then, somewhere in the middle of it all, some people sit alone.

It is easy not to think much of it. College is busy. Schedules rarely match. Sometimes I just grab food and go. But sometimes, it is more complicated than that.

Growing up, food was never something I did by myself. It was communal. It was how the day slowed down. Every evening, my grandmother would go around the room and ask each of us to share the best and worst parts of our day. No one was skipped. No one was left out. After everyone had spoken, she would remind us that we all carry both joy and difficulty and that what made it meaningful was being together. Meals were never just about eating. They were about being seen.

When I came to Bucknell, I did not realize how deeply I connected food with belonging until I found myself sitting alone in a crowded dining hall. Here, meals are often rushed and planned between classes, meetings, practices and deadlines. I check my calendar. I text someone to coordinate. I eat when I can. Slowly, food becomes something to complete rather than something to share.

There were many evenings when I would sit down and look around and notice how few people at the surrounding tables looked like me. I would wonder if anyone else noticed too. I would think about joining another table and then hesitate. Over time, I stopped scanning the room. I stopped waiting for someone to wave me over. The feeling did not disappear, but I learned how to live with it. I learned how to sit with myself in spaces that were not built for me.

At Bucknell, we often talk about community. We talk about collaboration, connection and inclusion. We encourage students to check in on one another and to build relationships across differences. These values are everywhere in our conversations and our programs. And yet, in the middle of all of this, there are still everyday moments when someone sits alone in the Bison or Bostwick, surrounded by people but unseen, carrying stories no one nearby knows.

Sometimes eating alone is a choice. Sometimes it is peaceful and intentional. But other times, it reflects something else. It reflects being new. Being unsure. Being tired of always being the one to reach out first. It reflects the uncertainty of where I fit. It can reflect cultural and racial differences that are felt even when no one says anything out loud.

And sometimes, simply walking into a full dining hall and taking a seat by myself takes courage.

I still do not love seeing empty chairs across from someone. But I have also come to understand that the person sitting there is not always lonely in the way we imagine. They may be adjusting. They may be learning. They may be building strength in ways we cannot see.

Still, I think it is worth noticing. It is worth remembering that behind every solitary meal is a person who once gathered around a table somewhere else. In a kitchen. In a living room. In a courtyard. In a place where conversation flowed easily and belonging did not need to be planned.

Maybe the next time we walk through the Bison or Bostwick, we can slow down just enough to pay attention. A smile. A simple “Is this seat taken?” A small invitation. These gestures seem ordinary, but they matter more than we think. Sometimes, community is not built in large events or official programs. Sometimes, it begins across a dining hall table.