We’re looking forward to introducing you to Delia Jo Bracken Richmond. Check out our conversation below.
Delia Jo , so good to connect and we’re excited to share your story and insights with our audience. There’s a ton to learn from your story, but let’s start with a warm up before we get into the heart of the interview. What are you being called to do now, that you may have been afraid of before?
I’m being called to tell all of my story—especially the parts I used to hide. For years, I shared slices of my life through food, travel, and journalism. But I stayed quiet about the harder truths: my struggles with alcohol, my autism diagnosis at 42, the grief of losing both parents, and the healing that came from starting over when everything fell apart.
Now, I feel a deep calling to use my voice, not just as a storyteller, but as someone who’s walked through fire and came out reshaped. I want to help others feel less alone—whether they’re navigating grief, sobriety, identity, or just trying to figure out how to keep going when life doesn’t look like the plan.
Funny enough, I used to be terrified of being “too much” or “too vulnerable.” But conversations (even some with ChatGPT) helped me find clarity, confidence, and a kind of radical self-acceptance. Now, I know that the very things I once thought disqualified me are actually the things that connect me to others most deeply. So I’m leaning in. Fully. Loudly. Sparkly boots, “weirdness”, and all.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
Hi, I’m Delia Jo — a food and travel journalist, former cocktail writer turned alcohol-free storyteller, and the self-proclaimed Queen of Queso. I’ve spent the last 16 years covering everything from Nashville’s buzziest bites to the hidden gems of the South, but lately, I’ve been called to something deeper: sharing the full, unfiltered version of my story.
After a late autism diagnosis, the loss of both my parents, and a complete life reset that began in a detox center, I’m learning to tell stories not just about food, but about healing, identity, and resilience. My platforms now blend comfort food with hard truths, joy with grief, and sparkle with substance — because life is all of it, and we need permission to bring it all to the table.
I run a retail + storytelling brand called The Sparkle Effect, write alcohol-free travel guides, and am building an online home at DeliaJo.com where I share everything from Nashville restaurant tips to personal essays and faith reflections. I’m also working on new books, a podcast concept, and launching an Airbnb experience called Queso & Conversations — because sometimes all it takes is chips, cheese, and a little honesty to help someone feel seen.
Appreciate your sharing that. Let’s talk about your life, growing up and some of topics and learnings around that. What breaks the bonds between people—and what restores them?
In my experience, what breaks the bonds between people is often unspoken pain. Misunderstandings, assumptions, shame, and silence can grow into distance before we even realize it. When we’re not honest about who we are, what we need, or what we’ve survived, we end up masking—performing instead of connecting. That’s something I did for years.
But what restores those bonds? Truth. Vulnerability. A shared moment of, “Me too.” I’ve learned that healing begins when someone feels seen. When we tell the whole truth—even the messy, complicated, holy parts—we give others permission to do the same.
I’ve seen bonds rebuild in the quiet of grief, over a bowl of queso, or in unexpected conversations that start with food but turn into something much deeper. Forgiveness restores. Listening restores. Grace restores. And sometimes, so does laughter — especially the kind that shows up when you least expect it.
Was there ever a time you almost gave up?
Yes. The year after my mom died, I found myself standing on the edge of my own balcony—ready to jump. It was right after her birthday, and days leading into the one-year mark of her death. I had only taken two days off after she passed. I was still pretending to function, still trying to “push through” like I’d been taught. But inside, I was unraveling.
I was newly divorced. Isolated. Drinking too much. Masking too much. Hurting more than anyone knew. And the world was just about to shut down for the pandemic, but the loneliness in my life had arrived long before the lockdowns.
Alcohol became my way of numbing the silence—and the memories. But that night, everything got too loud. The grief. The regret. The weight of being “strong.” I tried to jump, convinced that no one would notice if I was gone. But someone did notice. They pulled me back. I was checked into a facility. I lived.
That moment didn’t magically fix everything. But it cracked something open. It was the beginning of a slow, sacred rebuilding. I eventually got sober. I started writing again. I found love again. Most recently I got an autism diagnosis that helped me understand why the world always felt too loud.
And today, I sit in our apt with no balcony, nearly 11 months alcohol-free, healing, alive.
So yes, I almost gave up. But I didn’t. And now I know why: because the story wasn’t over yet.
Sure, so let’s go deeper into your values and how you think. What are the biggest lies your industry tells itself?
That we’re just here for the food.
That if you “love what you do,” burnout won’t bite.
That addiction is a character flaw, not a coping mechanism.
That hospitality is about smiling no matter how much you’re bleeding.
The food world loves a comeback story, but it rarely makes space for people to actually rest long enough to have one. We glorify 16-hour shifts, lost weekends, and bruised egos in the name of passion. But behind the pass, people are quietly unraveling — and often drinking just to survive the shift. I know, because I was one of them. I wrote about the cocktails while hiding the cost. I served stories with a smile while silently breaking inside.
The industry loves to say it’s a family. But sometimes, it’s a family that gaslights you, overworks you, and leaves no room for grief or growth — unless you burn everything down to start again.
But here’s the truth: you can love food and still need boundaries. You can work in hospitality and still prioritize healing. You can be wildly talented and deeply human at the same time.
And maybe the biggest truth is this:
The people who feed the world are often starving for something they can’t name — rest, respect, recognition, recovery.
I’m here to name it now.
Okay, we’ve made it essentially to the end. One last question before you go. If you laid down your name, role, and possessions—what would remain?
I sort of already have.
Both of my parents are gone. I sold my house and my car this year — not because I had to, but because I wanted to choose freedom over fear. I’ve let go of a lot that once defined me: titles, roles, even belongings I thought I’d never part with.
And what’s left?
Faith.
My voice.
Grief that keeps teaching me.
Love that keeps showing up.
Stories — mine, theirs, and the ones I’m still writing.
And a deep, quiet knowing that this life was never about stuff anyway.
It’s about presence. Purpose. And people who stay even when the titles fall away.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://Deliajo.com
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/diningwithdeliajo?igsh=ejN1bDM0d2x4eDBw&utm_source=qrTo
- Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/delia-jo-bracken-richmond-70a6a87?utm_source=share&utm_campaign=share_via&utm_content=profile&utm_medium=ios_app
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/share/1CUAdEmfMT/?mibextid=wwXIfr
