I don’t know how to shake it.

Every time someone’s coming over even if it’s planned, I spiral. And if it’s unplanned? Full-blown panic mode. My brain kicks into overdrive and suddenly I’m racing around, wiping already-clean counters and shoving random things into drawers. It doesn’t even matter if I like the person or if my house is perfectly fine.

Growing up, people didn’t come over. Like… ever. And if they did, it was a scheduled event with days of prep work. Or I had to always go to their house. I was the weird one that never had friends over. The house had to be tidied the way Shannon saw fit. But even then, it wasn’t normal for guests to step inside. Shannon was very private. If someone knocked, we were told to step outside to talk to them. It was like the inside of our house was off-limits. Untouchable. What happened within those four walls had to stay hidden. Like she was ashamed of it. Or maybe afraid of being seen too clearly.

That kind of message gets baked into your bones. It taught me that having people in your space was risky. Vulnerable. And maybe even shameful. I’ve carried that with me for years, even now, in a home I created with love, with nothing to hide and no reason to feel shame. But when someone comes over, that old panic creeps in like muscle memory.

I don’t keep a dirty house. I don’t have skeletons in my closets (okay, maybe some mismatched socks and expired pantry items). So why do I feel like I’m on edge every time we open the door to someone?

I wish I had the answer. All I know is that I’m trying to rewrite the narrative. I don’t want Alice to grow up afraid of being seen. I want her to feel proud of the life we’ve built, mess and all. I want our home to feel lived in and warm, not a tomb for us to live and die in with no outside visitors. You know this people that just have kids and their fiends hang out and come and go eating snacks and just having a good time. That kind of home.

Maybe it starts by sitting with that discomfort. Letting someone come over while the sink has dishes in it. Letting the pillows stay messy. Letting go of the idea that I need to be perfect to be welcoming.

Maybe it starts by realizing that real hospitality isn’t about spotless counters, it’s about showing up. As you are.

Even if your brain is screaming “clean everything!!” five minutes before the doorbell rings.