Up until a few years ago, I struggled with having people in my home.
I told myself it was about privacy. Peace. My sanctuary.
I was certain of it—would’ve defended that belief with everything I had.
But over the last five years—after hosting close friends and throwing some beautiful gatherings—I’ve had to admit something surprising:
I love having people in my home.
This shift wouldn’t have happened without my best friend and partner.
She nudged me—sometimes gently, sometimes boldly—to open the door.
So I did. And what came in was joy. Connection. Laughter.
Some unforgettable nights.
Of course, I still vet. Strange energy doesn’t get past the threshold.
But once that’s handled?
I love to host. I thrive in it.
It was after one of those cocktail nights that the belief I’d carried for so long finally cracked:
What if I never hated having people over?
What if that belief was inherited—from a father who never let me bring friends home as a kid?
Nahhhhh…
Or maybe… yeah.
Now, for the first time in my life, I have a home I cherish deeply.
It’s calm. Sacred. Ours.
Guests often say they feel relaxed the moment they step in.
That’s by design.
I protect the peace we’ve created—ferociously.
But I’ve learned that I can also share it.
I can invite people into my world.
I can ask others to come play in my sandbox—and still keep the energy intact.
It’s not either/or.
It’s yes, and.
