I thought about squirreling away to my guest bedroom or hiding somewhere in the yard, but alas I’ve decided to just awkwardly write from the kitchen island.
And hope no one is inconvenienced by my presence here.
And hope no one is bothered that I’m doing this (writing… quietly).
And probably stop writing this article like 20 times because I feel like I should be participating in something. Or organizing something. What are we doing tomorrow?
I’ve been a house guest for less than 24 hours and I know that even by the time I leave here in 48 hours, I’ll still be behaving like this. What is relaxation? I don’t know her.
Nothing’s wrong. Everyone’s lovely. The coffee smells good. I’m acting chill. But I am so not chill. I suspect - given the variables and past research - I am the problem.
But… it’s not just me, is it? I see you squirming. I suspect this is a we problem.
Community managers spend our working lives making sure everyone else is having a good (or at least productive) time. We’re really quite pros at it. But, that also makes us some of the worst house guests and hosts on the planet.
How so? I’ll tell you.
Thing 1: We read the room like it’s a dashboard
Who seemed a little short at breakfast. Whether that pause after my joke was a fun pause or a bad pause. (It’s a bad pause. It has to be a bad pause. I’m not funny.) Whether the dog is happy. (The dog is happy. The dog is always happy. I checked anyway.)
Noticing the newcomer hovering at the edge of the thread is most of the job. The trouble is we never close the freaking tab. People can feel being watched, even kindly. My host has started asking me if I’m settling in (yes, of course - thank you… but no which I won’t say), which tells you pretty much everything.
Thing 2: We cannot stop programming
Make us the host and it gets worse. Have you ever thrown a casual dinner and caught yourself mentally building a run of show? An icebreaker during appetizers. A “let’s go around and share” at the table. A backup activity in case energy dips around 8:15. (I have done all three. At the same party.)
Go with the flow? What the heck is that? We treat a potluck like a quarterly event with engagement goals, and then wonder why everyone looks a little tired by dessert. Potlucks work because nobody’s in charge of the outcome. Our guests came for lasagna.
Thing 3: We perform chill
Listen, my face says I’m relaxed. Feet up (not really, that feels rude), easygoing, “oh, whatever y’all want to do!” Meanwhile my brain is running a full program plan behind the scenes. It turns my mood up when the conversation lags and my opinions down when somebody seems tired. I keep feeling the need to clean something, but then my host will think she didn’t clean enough. And then we’ll be back to Thing 1.
Acting chill while managing everyone’s experience is just facilitation in a costume. And costumes are exhausting to wear for a whole weekend.
Thing 4: We can’t let anyone have a so-so time
Not every moment needs rescuing. My host can be cranky at dinner for reasons that have nothing to do with me. A lull at dinner can just be people chewing. (Wild concept.)
Every house guest knows the one unbreakable rule: you don’t touch the thermostat. Freezing, sweating, doesn’t matter. You grab a blanket and leave the dial alone, because it’s their house and they set the temperature. Emotionally, though, we’ve had our hand on that dial since we walked in the door.
But alas, nobody asked us to set the temperature.
And yes, I see how this follows us to work. How many threads have we jumped into at minute four because we couldn’t stand the silence, when a member was about to answer it better than we would have? That awkward pause before someone else steps up is where belonging gets built, and we keep stepping on it.
Thing 5: We don’t know how to be hosted
This is the big one. We spend so much time on the giving end of care that receiving it feels... wrong? Uncomfortable? Like we owe something back immediately. Letting someone else make you a plate, pick the movie, and run the evening without trying to co-produce it takes a muscle. Mine is roughly the size of a grape.
So how do we chill? Genuinely asking. I’m not sure the wiring ever fully switches off, since the same instincts that make us good at this work make us twitchy on someone else’s couch. Maybe it starts with noticing where your hand is, and then taking it off the dial.
Now to make it through another 48 hours. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.