Always the Host, Never the Guest

What happens when the one who creates space longs to be invited in.

There’s a particular kind of sadness I’ve carried for as long as I can remember—soft around the edges, buried deep inside, and mostly undetectable… until something stirs it. Then it rushes in like water through a door I thought was closed—flooding the carefully kept rooms I’ve spent years arranging.

It’s the quiet ache of being among others—seen, even liked—but still wondering if you truly belong.

In high school, I was the girl who had it all—at least on paper. Captain of the cheer squad. Class treasurer all four years. Member of National Honors Society. Voted “Happily Huggable” for the senior yearbook. My hometown newspaper once ran a piece on me titled Unsung Hero. People liked me. Teachers trusted me. Adults praised me.

I was elected to Homecoming Court.

But I didn’t go to the dance—because no one asked me.

I didn’t let the irony of that sting me at the time, because I had already become skilled at putting on my armor: That’s okay, I told myself. Home was quieter, safer anyway. I learned to make solitude feel like a sanctuary—even when, at times, it was really a shield. But the ache of being liked without being invited still lingers quietly—a thread I’m learning to trace with honesty and curiosity.

Looking back, it makes sense that I started building my armor early. I grew up in a volatile environment, where stability could turn quickly and unpredictably. Perfection became my way of creating order. If I could escape into a world I could carefully control, I could feel safe. I could stay ahead of the storm. That instinct—to create beauty, to curate calm—wasn’t just a way to cope; it became one of my greatest joys. Beauty isn’t something I use only to control—it’s something I cherish. A way of offering something meaningful to others, and a way of coming home to myself.

But the perfectionism that first helped me survive has also made it harder for others to get close or truly relate to me. People have said things like, “You just always seem so put together,” and while it’s usually meant as a compliment, there’s a quiet loneliness in that.

Vulnerability is our great connector, and I sometimes struggle to show the cracks in my foundation—mostly because I’ve been holding it all up for so long, I don’t always see them myself. I’ve spent years reinforcing the structure—it’s all second nature by now. But then I see other women truly connecting, forming new friendships, being invited in. And sometimes, a quiet feeling of being on the outside seeps in—like water slowly warping the floorboards—subtle at first, but impossible to ignore once things begin to shift.

Lately, I’ve felt a familiar tenderness resurfacing—a quiet insecurity around friendship. Who I’m close to, who I’m not, where I fit in the constellation of other women’s lives. A wondering. A noticing. Of course, belonging isn’t absent from my life. I feel it deeply with my family. With the women who’ve been with me since childhood—who feel like home in a way time can’t touch. And even in newer friendships, there are moments—quiet walks, lingering phone calls, shared laughter—when I feel completely seen and loved.

Even so, I’ve noticed that friendships formed later in life can feel harder to navigate. Maybe it’s the season I’m in. Or maybe it’s that old belief quietly resurfacing—the one that says I need to be perfect and offer something in order to belong.

Hosting has always been my way in—and genuinely, something I love. Creating space for others brings me deep joy. But I’ve also come to notice that it gives me a sense of control. It’s how I make sure I’m part of the room. And it makes me pause: if I stepped back—not from hosting itself, but from the quiet hustle to stay included—would the relationships I’ve nurtured continue to grow? If I didn’t set the table, would someone still make room for me at theirs?

Over time, I’ve made a quiet effort to soften—to stretch a little, to let myself be more vulnerable, to make space for my own needs. But some patterns run deep. The perfectionist in me is so woven into who I am, I don’t always notice she’s running the show. She’s the one writing the lists, arranging the flowers, managing the details—not just because I love it, but because some part of me believes that if everything looks good on the outside, everything on the inside will stay steady too. That if I keep the room beautiful and the energy flowing, there will always be space for me within it.

Perfection is a clever (and exhausting) kind of armor. It makes everything look smooth on the surface—but can quietly keep others at a distance. It designs beautiful rooms and invites everyone else inside, while I linger near the doorway, gently questioning who I am without the role of the one who creates beauty.

There’s a difference between being appreciated for what you offer and being truly known. And the older I get, the more I long for connection that isn’t built on what I contribute—but on who I am when I’m not trying to hold it all together.

Maybe part of growing up is realizing some rooms were more staged than lived in. That the version of myself I offered—capable, gracious, always prepared—made people comfortable, but not always close.

So now I’m asking: what would it look like to let people into the rooms I usually keep closed? The ones with uneven lighting, messy cushions, creaky floors. The one with mistakes.

Because maybe connection doesn’t live in the spaces we perfect—but in the ones we stop hiding.

x Crystal

You can find me on Instagram here. And my archives here.