Our Story
About Citrus & Co.
Our Story
I still remember the first table I set because it didn’t exist anywhere else. I was 27, freshly married, living in a one-bedroom in Saint Paul, and I realized I hadn’t seen a single woman sit down without apologizing for something in years. The only way I knew how to fix that was to drag a borrowed table into my living room, light every candle I owned, and invite my neighbor over. She cried. I did too. (We laughed a lot in between.) That night taught me that a table isn’t furniture. It’s a feeling. It’s the moment your shoulders drop and you realize you don’t have to hold your breath anymore.
The Feeling You’ve Been Carrying
You wake up every morning and the calendar is full. You’re good at this. You get the promotion. You drop off the kids. You send the check. But under all of it there’s a weight you can’t name. Maybe it feels like standing in a room where everyone else knows each other. Maybe it feels like looking around your own life and thinking, This is it? (No wonder we scroll.) You have a full life and still find yourself craving a room where you don’t have to explain why you’re tired. I know exactly what that feels like.
Mikosa’s Mess
I didn’t grow up at lit tables. I grew up in a house with paper plates and one TV dinner tray. I didn’t know how to ask women over without feeling like I had to scrub the baseboards first. It’s embarrassing now to admit how long I waited to feel worthy of lighting a candle. I kept telling myself I’d invite them when I had a bigger place, when I had nicer linens, when I wasn’t embarrassed to pull out my mismatched plates. I waited so long that my best friend moved away. That was when I decided I’d rather share my mess than sit in it alone. So I built Citrus & Co. Not as a brand. As a way to survive loneliness.
The Revelation
he table is always better lit when you decide it’s not about you. That’s what I discovered the night I stopped apologizing for my kitchen and started asking women what was heavy for them. We didn’t fix anything that night. We didn’t solve a single problem. We just sat there and let the room get quiet and loud at the same time. I realized that every time I tried to make it perfect, I robbed someone else of feeling seen. The revelation wasn’t a strategy. It was a surrender. It was whispering to myself, It’s okay that you don’t have this figured out. The table changes everything because the table isn’t trying to change you.
What I Want For You
I want you to feel the relief I felt when I finally let someone in. I want your shoulders to drop when you walk into a room that was built for you. I want you to know that you don’t need a bigger house, a better job, or a different life to deserve a place at the table. I want you to sit down next to me and let your voice crack. I want you to leave with something growing. If you’re ready, there’s a seat.
“It Started With One Table”
Pull up a chair.
There is a seat for you. Drop a note and tell us what kind of room you are looking for.