Essay Link Copied 08.21.24

Hosting Dinners Is Healing My Childhood Shame 

It’s never too late to give yourself whatever you’ve missed out on. BySusie Moore

Shutterstock / Wondermind

One day I was driving past a friend’s place and texted her to wave through the window at me as I went by. In a matter of seconds, she said, “Come in! I’m making lentil soup!” 

I mean…what? Is everyone so guest-ready? Do you all secretly work at Good Housekeeping or something?

I’ve often wondered if I’m the only one who has felt weird or anxious about having people over. I’ve noticed friends do it with such ease—even last minute—just like *snaps fingers*. A “come over for dinner later?” text seems so casual to them, while I would need days to prepare the meal and my home (nice soap, check!) and, most importantly, my emotions. 

Up until this year, I could never.

Growing up, I lived in a blend of government housing and women's shelters, which made me different from my friends. 

Women's shelters are, by nature, safe houses, meaning visitors aren’t allowed. So it was always uncomfortable during a sleepover at their blissfully normal home when a friend asked, “When can I come to your house?” 

In the years we lived in government housing, where visitors were allowed, the I have to hide this part of me sentiment followed. 

I didn’t talk about my home life ever. When my friends spoke about a new bike, puppy, car, or even new pajamas, I’d ask questions to avoid the conversation swerving to me. Luckily, people love talking about themselves! 

My life looked different than my friends. My dad didn’t live with us, we didn’t have a car, pets, or any new stuff. We got by with second-hand sofas and donated school uniforms. (When I pass a church accepting donations these days, I notice my eyes grow wet.) I was ashamed of all that, so I said very little about my existence outside of school, even to my closest childhood friends. 

That meant I almost never invited anyone over. I felt too embarrassed. I was a good student and had a lot of friends, so I preferred to let people assume my home life was just like my school life: fun and normal. Unlike my schoolmates' houses, which had snacks, breakfast options (options!), and packed pantries, we didn’t have more than we needed. With our limited menu and our humble government housing, I worried that I’d be looked-down upon by my peers. 

Decades passed, I got my own place(s), and I’d occasionally invite friends to come over when I knew I had plenty of time to make my home look as perfect as possible. But then, something curious happened earlier this year. After spending a month traveling, an algorithmic gift arrived at just the right time. While scrolling through Instagram, I saw a video posted by a content creator who invited her 102-year-old neighbor over for a last-minute dinner of leftover pasta with butter. She was embarrassed, calling it the“lowest-on-the-totem-pole” meal she could offer. But declared, “People need people, not perfection!”

At that point I was craving more time at home, and I also wanted to see my people. That was a real predicament for someone (me) who primarily invited friends to go out, not stay in. I don’t know if I was aware of it at the time, but a part of me was still scared to let them fully into my space.

But after watching that video, I realized I had an all-or-nothing mindset. I thought if I had people over, it had to be perfect. If not, I’d risk exposing an “imperfect” area of my life (I’m no Martha Stewart) and risk losing control of how people see me overall. 

That sweet Instagram clip felt like a motivating arrow to my chest. It made me think that I may be missing out. It’s not the most elegant food or setting that nourishes us, it’s presence and warmth. I also felt good knowing that homey influencers, the ones who seemingly live perfectly all the time, sometimes felt self-conscious in the same way I do.

So, over the last several months, I set out to host regular and more impromptu dinners at my apartment in hopes of getting the things younger me always wanted: a feeling of having plenty and the freedom to show my authentic self to the people I love. In the end, I wound up healing the parts of me that wanted to hide. 

Take it from me, if you’ve been putting off a casual gathering you secretly might like to hold, the best way to do it…is to do it. Here are the unexpected ways hosting dinners in my apartment helped heal my childhood shame. 

It made me realize I actually do have enough.

One time at school there was an assignment asking us to name and describe a few items in our garage. Garage? I’ve never had one of those! My mum sent a letter to the teacher saying, “Sorry, we do not have any of this. Susie cannot complete this homework.” 

I became well aware of not having what other people have—or knowing what other people know. Even when I was on my own, I felt ignorant. I kind of leaned into the idea that I’m a “career woman” to explain why I don’t cook, but the real me just felt like I missed out on the adult guide to entertaining. I decided it was better not to let people see I don’t know what I’m doing.

But with my fresh motivation to connect in deeper ways, I immediately texted my friend Adam and his boyfriend to come over for…burgers! And not burgers that I ordered in (past me would do this and then blame the restaurant if anything sucks), I found a recipe and made them myself. 

This one act opened me up in a brand new way. I never viewed myself as a cook or host, but being one that day proved me wrong. I could be those things. 

Through my simple burger flipping and serving, I began to heal the younger version of me who felt ill-equipped to create a nice experience and scared of not knowing how to do something I was never taught.

I discovered that I actually have everything I need. My friends were happy, leaning into their island stools with their beers, sharing their latest news. All of the pressure was in my head. 

Making simple meals, allowing people to see where I spend most of my time, and tucking into my imperfect cheese plate is proof that I do know what I’m doing and have enough to share. There’s nothing like disproving a story you’ve been telling yourself for decades.

I discovered a new level of intimacy. 

When someone sees your space, your art, and your colorful ramekins (from Istanbul, in case you’re wondering), you see more sides of a person than when you only meet in restaurants and bars. My bookshelf, for example, is prominent and packed with self-help titles and the English classics. Nothing reveals your soul more than the literature you read (a 100% scientific fact).

After I started having more casual hangouts at my place, my friends would ask questions or make comments on parts of my life that meant a lot to me. They’d say, “I love seeing where you record your podcast!” (it’s called Let It Be Easy! Check it out here) and “Oh, this French poster is so fun” (I was a nanny in France when I was 18).  This opens a dialogue about my work, what I most care about (self-help and books, if you haven’t guessed), and even my relationship with France. 

I used to think my home was wrong somehow compared to everyone else’s, but having people see it and spend time in it in an unrushed way proves that everything is fine as is. Having the details of my life, personality, and history on display deepen my connections and make me feel seen from different angles.

I always feel closer to a person after having been in their home, don’t you? You can picture them in their kitchen when they’re chatting with you on the phone, making coffee. You’ve met the dog that’s yapping in the background. Maybe you’ve run into the oddball neighbor in the lift that you’ve heard funny stories about. You can know them more fully. 

Now that I’m letting people into the place I feel most like myself, I feel like I’ve peeled back another layer of who I am, allowing my friends to see what makes me me.

It taught me that no one’s judging

I used to go to school with a girl named Stephanie. She had the most beautiful house— a formal dining room, pristine white carpets, a big TV, and endless snacks. I remember thinking, This is what a proper home looks like. It would be way too embarrassing for me to invite someone to my place after they’ve been to Stephanie’s. Fucking Stephanie. 

But hosting dinners is dissolving the fear of comparison for me. I used to think I had to keep up with some invisible standard set by the Stephanies of the world, but I’ve realized that no one’s holding me to it—other than scared, 7-year-old me. 

Through hosting, I soothe her. When friends come over, I’m able to show her that they’re just focused on enjoying the moment. They’re not comparing my place to someone else’s, just like I would never compare my friends’ homes. Would you ever say, “I’m going to Katie’s house, not Claire’s, this weekend because her cutlery’s superior.” I don’t think so! My friends are not critiquing my crockery or judging my charcuterie board. They’re just happy to be with me and have a good time. And you know what? So am I.

Every time I invite someone into my home now, I know they’re not expecting a Pinterest-perfect experience. They’re here for connection, and that’s something I do well. The younger me is healing in new and unexpected ways because I understand that no one is comparing—least of all, my friends.