Less Doom, More Dinner Parties
Turns Out, You're Supposed to Leave the House
It was a perfect night.
A reservation for 14 at Tribute, a pizza restaurant in San Diego. Every seat filled with friends from across the country—well, almost every seat. Our friend’s husband had been planning this weekend gathering for over a month, all of us jumping at the chance to celebrate the expanding family tree of our friend group. For some, it was a Peace Corps reunion. For others, an extended network of friends-of-friends, made instantly close by our shared love for the same person.
After more than a decade of friendship, I finally met one of my best friend’s sisters in person—someone I knew through stories, photos, and secondhand memories but had never actually stood across from. It was that strange, surreal feeling of meeting someone for the first time and somehow already knowing them.
Remarkabely, we all arrived on time—a rare feat for this group. Just a few minutes later, our friend walked in, completely flabbergasted. The perfect surprise. It felt almost cinematic—like a scene unfolding in perfect sync, each of us hitting our marks without rehearsal.
"What the fuck?"
The disbelief, the laughter—all landing right on cue. She stayed in a state of shock for several solid minutes, the server resolutely attempting to explain the menu and take drink orders. But then the tears spread like a wave around the table, and the server—still trying—was met with total indifference.
Read the room, man.
And then, as the initial shock wore off, suspicion set in. She started piecing it all together—how I had been weirdly vague in a text the night before, when, in reality, I was mid-flight. How another friend ignored her call earlier in the week, too afraid they’d crack under pressure. Luckily, she hadn’t noticed that a few locations on Find My Friends had mysteriously disappeared.
It was a beautiful night. The conversation moved effortlessly—smaller side exchanges folding into bigger group discussions and back again, the kind of flow you can’t manufacture, only experience. I wanted to savor every second.
Every dish felt intentional, each bite pulling us further into the kind of dinner you never want to end. It began with a bread plate so absurdly perfect it felt almost ceremonial—burrata spilling onto a warm, golden crust, the sharp tang of balsamic glaze, rich olive oil and pepper, a pat of butter softening at the edges. Then came the cheesy bread, rich and indulgent, followed by two salads that defied expectation. I, a lifelong kale skeptic, found myself devouring the brilliantly named I Kale, I Saw, I Conquered. And honestly, how could I resist? Farmer’s market kale, a betrayal of Caesar by the coward Brutus dressing, preserved Meyer lemon, Calabrian chiles, Parmigiano Reggiano, focaccia croutons, Aleppo pepper.
Then, the main event: pizza. The restaurant’s menu changes frequently, each pie a small act of devotion, named for someone or somewhere worth remembering. Even the simplest, the Kevin McAllister—a plain cheese pizza, a nod to Home Alone—was unexpectedly exquisite. The slices arrived small, meant for sharing, disappearing from the platters as fast as they landed.
By the time dessert arrived, you’d think we’d have no room left. But there is always room for ice cream. A plain vanilla, drizzled with fancy olive oil and a pinch of sea salt, somehow stole the whole show. Maybe it was the pre-dinner gummy I’d taken for my social anxiety, but at that moment, the dinner felt like a religious experience.
It felt like living in a Nancy Meyers movie—the warm glow of conversation, the clink of mocktails and wine glasses, the occasional blur of pizza dough spinning sterotypically high in the open kitchen like a scene perfectly choreographed for ambiance.
But real life isn’t a movie. Nights like this don’t just appear out of nowhere. Someone has to plan them. Someone has to decide that gathering is worth the effort, that friendships deserve tending to, that time together is something to be protected.
It reminded me of something I read recently:
"Everyone wants to attend parties, but no one wants to throw them. We just expect them to appear when we need them, like fire trucks."
The article in The Atlantic puts its thesis right in the headline: Americans Need to Party More. The gist? Americans are in their flop era when it comes to socializing. We want community, but we also want plans to materialize out of thin air. The article makes the case that throwing a party—or even just initiating a get-together—isn’t just about fun; it’s about actively creating the kind of life we want to live. And yes, even as someone who is super anxious, I know that avoiding social interaction isn’t the answer. Awkward small talk, weird pauses, accidentally talking over someone—it’s all still better than isolation. Socializing isn’t just a nice-to-have; it’s part of being human.
And it doesn’t have to be some meticulously planned, Pinterest-worthy gathering. It can be as simple as a cookout, a movie night, listening to records with friends, or just claiming a spot in the park and seeing who shows up. The point isn’t perfection—it’s just making the effort, however small, to bring people together.
More than anything, this is an argument directed at myself. I can’t complain about being lonely if I don’t put in the effort it takes to maintain relationships or even find new ones. I can’t wait for invitations to arrive like magic. I have to be the one who makes the call, books the table, gathers the people.
I have to make space for joy.
Every newsletter can’t be about how the world is overwhelming me. But the truth is, it still is. The doomscrolling, the dread, the inertia—it doesn’t disappear just because I had a great weekend. But maybe these moments are part of the antidote. Maybe they don’t cancel out the fear or the frustration, but they remind me that life exists beyond them.
Maybe joy isn’t just something that happens—it’s something we have to make room for, over and over again. It isn’t the absence of struggle, but the decision to find light in spite of it. And not in some toxic-positivity, “just think happy thoughts” kind of way, but in a real, tangible effort to seek out connection, laughter, and warmth—even when it feels easier to withdraw.
Because it is easier to withdraw. To cancel plans, to stay inside, to let the weight of everything keep you still. But joy doesn’t tend to knock on your door uninvited. You have to build a life that allows it in. And that’s work. The kind of work I sometimes avoid because it feels unnecessary, or self-indulgent, or like something I can put off until I have less anxiety, or more energy, or until the world feels less terrible.
But what if the joy comes first? What if we let it exist alongside everything else, rather than waiting for the right conditions?
I don’t know if one weekend can fix anything, but I do know that for a few hours, I wasn’t frozen in fear. I wasn’t watching the world happen from behind a screen.
I was in it.
And that has to count for something.
(And in case you need proof: this was even the weekend TikTok went missing for 24 hours—and I barely noticed. Barely.)
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Tiny Acts of Togetherness: Go for a walk and say hi to the neighbors you encounter. Dare I suggest trying to strike up a conversation with someone, even if its just about the weather.
