The Tranquil Vintessa

Growing up, I didn’t go to many fancy restaurants. We didn’t dress up. We rarely did big celebrations. It was always simple—kinda thrown together.

As a child, I never thought much about it. I just assumed we weren’t a “fancy” family.

I remember one night—me, my sister, and my father went out to eat with his side of the family at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. We had just been hanging out at my uncle’s house, cooking out, and then suddenly, we were at this expensive restaurant.

I sat in the lobby, feeling painfully underdressed.

Once seated, everyone began looking at menus and placing their orders. When we asked my dad if we could eat, he said, “You don’t eat at restaurants like this.”

So we nibbled on bread and drank water while the rest of the table ate and laughed.

Looking back, I think he didn’t want to feed us twice—and maybe didn’t want to spend that kind of money. I still don’t even know how we ended up there. The night had started with us cooking out.

That moment stuck with me more than I realized. For a long time, it shaped how I saw places like that—and eventually, how I saw myself.

As I got older, I felt like I was constantly being told to settle. To not need “all that extra.” It kept reinforcing that same old feeling: you’re out of place, you don’t belong. You just watch—you don’t partake.

I wanted to change that mindset. Because regardless of who I am or where I came from, I deserve to get dressed, go out, and eat wherever I please.

And just my luck—a new Ruth’s Chris opened down the road from me.

So I got dressed in a soft red tassel wrap skirt I’d been saving for something special. Threw on a simple top. Grabbed my “adult” bag. And I took myself out.

I didn’t invite anyone. This moment was about rewriting history.

It was for the exes who tried to humble me—because not only did I not need them to take me out, I could take myself out, with my own money.

I didn’t want to gossip, so no girlfriends—maybe next time. This was for the child in me who was denied so much. A gentle reminder that I am worthy. I am blessed. And maybe even a quiet celebration of how far I’ve come—mentally, physically, and spiritually.

Walking in, I was nervous, that old lingering feeling of not belonging trying to weasel its way back in. I took a deep breath and asked for a table (I’ve never been a “sit at the bar” person).

It felt so luxurious, so fancy—it was almost funny. I thought everyone was staring at me, wondering what I was doing there. But people rarely are.

I turned on a podcast I like to listen to and took in my surroundings. After a beat, my waiter came, and I ordered the chicken with a tuna appetizer. I tried not to look at my phone. I wanted to savor this moment in time. To feel and heal that girl inside me.

I slowly closed my eyes and told her, “Yes, you can eat at a place like this.” And almost as if the universe heard me, when I opened my eyes, I saw my waiter coming out with my food.

I ate slowly, enjoying every bite and every moment. The food was delicious, but what it represented was so much more than just eating.

I was there—not just at Ruth’s Chris, but in my life. An active participant. In control now.

Once the meal was done, I paid—with a little more understanding of why my father might not have wanted to spend that kind of money back then. (Still, we could’ve split a meal or something.) Then I got into my car and drove home, feeling a little more full than I expected.

Some moments aren’t just about food or fancy places. They’re about proving to yourself that you belong there too.