Learning to Notice: What a Grocery Store Taught Me About People

A few weeks ago, Billy came with me to Central Market.

Before we had made it through the store, someone called out, "Hey, Chef!"

Then another.

Then another.

One partner smiled and said, "Look at you! We usually only see you in your chef coat. Your hair is down, you're wearing makeup and jewelry, and you look so cute!"

Billy looked at me, laughed, and said, "I had no idea you knew this many people."

The truth is, I don't think much about it anymore.

It's simply become part of my life.

After more than fifteen years as a private chef, grocery stores have become as familiar to me as my own kitchen. I shop almost every day. Over time, I've come to know the butchers who save special cuts for me, the seafood managers who help me choose the freshest fish, the cheesemongers who always have a recommendation, the cashiers who ask about my week, and the produce partners who know exactly where to find that one ingredient I'm searching for.

One of the things I admire most about H-E-B is how many of their partners build entire careers there. Because they stay, relationships have the chance to grow. We stop recognizing one another by our uniforms and name tags and start recognizing one another as people.

Over time, they stopped being "the butcher" or "the cashier."

They became Sean.

Jennifer.

Michael.

One day I stopped by Groomer's Seafood to pick up fish for one of my clients. Rick Groomer came out of his office to say hello and introduced me to another customer.

Within just a few minutes, she was sharing the story of losing her husband.

Then she suddenly stopped herself, laughed, and said, "You're a chef. It's not like you're a therapist! Why am I telling you all of this?"

I smiled.

"Actually," I said, "I'm a certified wellness coach."

We both laughed.

But as I drove away that day, I realized something.

She hadn't shared her story because I was a chef.

She hadn't shared it because I was a coach.

For a few moments, she simply felt heard.

Moments like that have happened more times than I can count.

My family teases me because a quick trip to the grocery store often turns into an hour. Somewhere between the produce department and the checkout lane, someone shares a story about a new grandbaby, a health challenge, a child leaving for college, a dream they're finally pursuing, or a season of grief they're quietly carrying.

People often ask me why strangers open up so easily.

I don't think it's because I have the right words.

I think it's because I'm genuinely curious about people.

When I ask, "How are you?" I'm prepared to hear the real answer.

One of those people was Sean.

For years, Sean worked in the produce department. We talked whenever our paths crossed. Nothing extraordinary. Just the kind of conversations that happen when two people see each other often enough to become part of each other's lives.

When Sean passed away from cancer, I cried.

Some people might think that's unusual.

After all, he wasn't family.

He wasn't one of my clients.

He was someone I knew from the grocery store.

But I don't think he was "just" someone from the grocery store.

He mattered.

The longer I do this work, the more convinced I become that every person matters.

The people stocking shelves.

The people checking groceries.

The families who invite me into their homes.

The clients who trust me with their health.

The neighbor we wave to but have never really met.

The person sitting quietly across from us at dinner who is carrying a burden we know nothing about.

Years ago, I thought my work as a private chef was about preparing beautiful meals.

Then, after becoming a certified wellness coach, I thought it was about helping people build healthier habits.

Today, I think it's something much simpler.

It's about helping people feel seen.

As a private chef, people invite me into one of the most personal places in their lives—their homes. As a coach, they invite me into places even more personal: their fears, hopes, struggles, and dreams.

Both are built on the same foundation.

Trust.

I've come to believe that trust doesn't begin when I walk through someone's front door.

It begins with noticing.

Listening.

Caring enough to stay for the answer.

For years, people have welcomed me into their homes.

It only feels right to welcome you into mine.

Here you'll find stories from kitchens, grocery stores, coaching conversations, classrooms, and everyday life. You'll find evidence-based insights about health and aging, reflections on relationships, and lessons I've learned from the remarkable people I've had the privilege of meeting along the way.

More than anything, I hope you'll leave feeling seen.

Because I believe meaningful change rarely begins with a dramatic moment.

It begins with one conversation.

One shared meal.

One person choosing to truly notice another.

I believe the table is where healthier habits, stronger relationships, meaningful conversations, and lasting change begin.

It All Starts at the Table™

Pull up a chair.

There's always room at my table.

— Catherine