Hosting for Introverts
What is it that scares you?
Most people I know want to host more than they do. They’ll say things like “we should have people over more” or “I’ve been meaning to throw a dinner party,” and then months pass and nothing happens. I’ve been one of these people. And I think the reason so many of us stall out is that we’ve subtly miscategorized what hosting actually is—we’ve made it into something it isn’t, and in doing so, made it feel impossible.
But it isn’t impossible. It’s very possible. And the secret, if there is one, is almost disappointingly simple: repetition. Hosting gets easier the more you do it, not because you get better at it (though you might), but because the psychological barriers that make it feel hard start to erode. The first time you invite people over, every part of it feels weighted with significance. The fifth time, it’s just something you do. You stop agonizing over whether your apartment is clean enough or whether people will have fun. You just send the text.
The second key is understanding what’s actually stopping you. And this requires a kind of honest self-audit, because the thing you think is your blocker is probably not your blocker.
Many people operate under the assumption that hosting is an imposition—that by inviting someone to something, you’re asking them to do you a favor. But this has it exactly backwards. Belonging is one of the most important feelings in the world. It’s the thing we’re all, in various ways, searching for. And invitations provide belonging. When you invite someone to something, even if they say no, you’ve just told them: I thought of you. I want you around. You belong in my life. That’s not a burden. That’s a gift. Even if everyone says no, you’ve still given it.
Others believe that hosting requires resources they don’t have—time, money, a nice apartment, the ability to cook. But hosting doesn’t actually require much of either. What it requires is willingness, and everything else can be traded for convenience. Consider what I think of as minimum viable hosting: pizza and a movie at your place. A pay-your-own-way dinner at a restaurant where you’ve made a reservation. Texting your friends on a random Tuesday and telling them which bar you’re at. None of these require you to be wealthy or free or talented. They just require you to be the person who sends the message.
And if even that feels like too much, find a co-conspirator. A partner, a close friend, someone who’s in on it with you. This does a few things at once. First, it guarantees you’re going to have a good time regardless of turnout—if nobody else shows up, you’re still hanging out with someone you like. Second, it gives you someone to bounce ideas off, someone to text “should we do this?” and actually get an answer. Third, and perhaps most importantly, it diffuses the shame. If things fall apart, if no one comes, if the vibe is off, you have someone to construct the narrative with. It wasn’t a failure, it was a funny story. You tried something together. That’s different from trying something alone and watching it collapse.
I think a lot of us have internalized that hosting is something other people do—people with bigger apartments, more charisma, fewer anxieties. But the people who host regularly aren’t different from us in any meaningful way. They’ve just done it enough times that it stopped feeling scary. And the only way to get there is to start, and then to keep starting, over and over, until it becomes just another thing you do. That’s been my experience anyway.