Maybe I was Supposed to be the One creating the Gathering

I have had FOMO for approximately my entire life.

Not the cute kind where you briefly wish you had gone to dinner.

The dramatic kind.

The What if everyone bonds without me? What if something hilarious happens? What if this becomes the story everyone tells for the next ten years and I WASN’T THERE? kind.

Growing up, one of the deepest things I struggled with was belonging.

I’m not entirely sure how that feeling gets built in most people, but I know I spent a lot of years searching for it.

Sometimes I probably still do.

For a long time, belonging meant getting into the room.

The invitation.

The audition.

The job.

The party.

The table.

My dance career only made this more complicated because professional dancers live in a strange social world. You can become incredibly close to people incredibly quickly. You rehearse together for hours. Travel together. Eat together. See each other exhausted, nervous, exhilarated, homesick.

Then the job ends.

Everyone scatters.

You do it all over again.

I became very good at walking into rooms.

It took me much longer to realize I could create one.

These days, one of my favorite things in the world is having people in my home.

I feed them.

This is partially because feeding people is absolutely one of my love languages and partially because I come from an Asian upbringing where food is basically punctuation.

You arrive?

Food.

You’re sad?

Food.

Something wonderful happened?

Great. We should eat.

Over the years, hosting became one of the ways I learned how to create the feeling I used to spend so much time chasing.

And my favorite way to feed a room full of people is probably the charcuterie board.

I love a full meal, but a full meal is also a production. A board gives everyone permission to wander, nibble, talk, come back, try something new, and eat exactly what they want.

Which is basically my ideal social environment.

For a smaller group, I start with a board or tray. For a crowd, I have absolutely taped clean butcher paper directly across an island or table and called the entire thing a board.

Then I build by color and season.

Grapes. Berries. Dried citrus. Whatever fruit looks beautiful right now.

I usually choose three to five cheeses with different textures and flavors. Manchego, gouda, hot honey goat cheese, Boursin, sharp cheddar. I cut them differently so people can actually tell what they’re reaching for without turning dinner into a cheese-identification exam.

Then prosciutto, salami, maybe dips or olives.

And the nuts always go in their own bowl.

That detail seems insignificant until you have someone you love with a nut sensitivity.

Then it becomes the point.

Hosting has taught me that inclusion is often built through details nobody else notices.

Remembering the allergy.

Having something for the person who doesn’t drink.

Making sure the new person gets pulled into the conversation.

Noticing when someone has been standing alone a little too long.

Putting the nuts in their own bowl.

At the end, I usually walk outside and grab mint or rosemary from the garden to fill in whatever little spaces are left.

And every time I stand back and look at one of those boards, I think about how strange it is that something as simple as arranging cheese can become part of a much bigger lesson.

Community is created moment by moment.

It does not simply happen because a bunch of people happen to be standing in the same room.

Belonging grows where people feel valued and useful.

Where they feel remembered.

Where somebody notices what they need.

Where there is space for them as they are.

I think that is what I spent so many years looking for.

A room where somebody had already thought about me.

I’m not sure when the shift happened, but at some point I stopped waiting for somebody else to build that room.

I started building it myself.

It hasn’t cured my FOMO.

Let’s not get carried away.

But it has changed the question.

Instead of wondering, Why wasn’t I invited?

I find myself thinking, Who haven’t I invited lately?

Instead of chasing the seat, I set the table.

Instead of wondering where my community is, I try to tend to the one already growing around me.

Maybe belonging was never something I was supposed to find fully formed.

Maybe it was something I needed to practice.

Something I needed to create for other people until I finally recognized the feeling myself.

I used to be afraid of missing the gathering. Maybe I was supposed to be the one creating the gatherings.

So come over.

I probably made too much food anyway.