In 2023, a few years after moving to Alabama for my husband’s dream job at NASA, I found myself desperately lonely and facing the prospect of an adulthood over 400 miles from our hometown with a nonexistent social safety net. I felt like we were in a race against time: how quickly could we build the kind of community we would need as we began to build a family?
I committed to spending the entire year pursuing any opportunity that might lead to a connection with others. I took pottery classes and set up coffee dates. I attended networking events and planned baking days. I slid into the DMs of any interesting woman in my area who came across my Instagram feed: “This might sound strange, but I think we should be friends!”
As part of this effort, I began to love planning small parties, and in the process, I realized that if I was willing to be the one to make plans, my ability to connect with others grew exponentially.
Courtesy of Alyssa Hakanson
I realized that by planning things I wanted to do, I’d attract people I’d want to be friends with
For years, I’d been sitting at home wondering why I had nothing to do. Was everyone hanging out without me? Was I socially inept in ways I hadn’t realized? But once I began trying in earnest, I realized it was something else: no one was planning anything, not really.
Sure, everyone was busy — workout classes, day care drop-off, work deadlines, little league games, family obligations — but they were mostly waiting for someone else to make the first move. So I did. I began hosting regularly, and building community events on my own terms. I sketched out ideas for gatherings that would delight me and attract the kind of person I wanted in my life: seasonal “produce parties,” pumpkin carving, game nights, monthly dinner parties with close friends, watercolor club, and farmers market meet-ups.
In those efforts, I was met with an incredible amount of enthusiasm. I filtered out the people who regularly flaked on me and prioritized those who seemed most enthusiastic about being there. I realized the value of what I call “joiners”: friends who try to say “yes” as often as possible are the fuel for the hosting fire.
It’s a joy to see our small home full of so much life and to introduce our friends to each other, and as we close the door behind the last lingering guest, we smile and sigh and look at our crumb-filled home with deep, aching gratitude for what we’re building.
Courtesy of Alyssa Hakanson
However, planning does take its toll
But it’s not free to be the planner of the friend group. There is a fair bit of administrative work: coordinating schedules, sending invites and tracking RSVPs, planning menus, and, of course, the monetary expense of purchasing groceries or other hosting obligations.
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My husband and I regularly spend a full day preparing to host, but the whole thing feels sacred in a way. We see it as an investment in building the world we’d like to live in, and we hope that it will pay off in lifelong friendships and that elusive “found family” that many millennials pursue.
Still, I find myself stifling twinges of hurt when the effort isn’t reciprocated. It’s a privilege to have the bandwidth to host the way we do, and that’s not by accident. I revel in my position as the friend group’s Ina Garten! However, when I’m invited to something planned by someone else and I’m able to simply relax and show up with a salad or bottle of wine, I realize what a gift I’ve been giving. It’s nice to reap all the joy without putting in all the effort.
I can’t help but wonder: if my bandwidth narrows or my life circumstances change, if I find myself unable to be the one constantly reaching out, will anyone else step in? What would it take to turn a few joiners into planners?
