show up empty handed? never!

so here's the deal with all the cakes...

Never Show Up Empty-Handed

Last night, on my way to dinner with friends, I felt a familiar urge: stop by Cookbook for flowers. It was reflexive, but I then realized it was an old habit that had now faded.

When I first moved to LA in 2020, I bought flowers there (then $10, now $17) before most gatherings. I'm not sure if this is a Midwestern trait or something from my upbringing, but I was taught to never show up empty-handed. Somewhere along the way, I took this to an extreme—bringing a gift anytime I hung out with someone, as if I needed to justify being there.

I realized how ingrained this was when I brought a second date his favorite chili oil (I have the oil stain on my favorite vintage trench coat to prove it). Often what I gave wasn’t even personal, it was what I had, like a case of KIND bars during the 6 years I worked for that company.

As money got tighter, these offerings became less relevant—often things the recipient wouldn’t even want. But they weren’t for them; they were for me. A way to compensate for my own feelings of inadequacy, to prove my worth through food, drink, or flowers.

In 2022, the flowers became cakes. It started as a way to ensure everyone had something to stick a candle into to wish upon. But soon it became my security blanket. At a party, the cake is the most important dish to pass, which made me feel like a critical guest. When a stranger said, “Were you the one with the cake at Sophie’s party? I wasn’t there, but I saw you on Instagram,” I’d become the girl with the most cake.

At some point, I started dreading invites—not because I didn’t want to go, but because it meant I'd be up late baking to ease my social anxiety.

Last night, however, when I noticed the old flower buying impulse, I realized I'd changed. I went empty-handed to that dinner—makeupless and a little melancholy. I wasn’t masking my flaws; I was allowing them.

My friends won’t remember if I brought flowers, but hopefully, they’ll remember how it felt to have me there. Maya Angelou said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

I need to extend that to: They won’t remember what I wore, that I was a little tired, or if I brought a cake. They’ll remember if I was present, how well I listened, and if I was a good friend.

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People-Pleasing, Perfectionism & The Weight of Gifts

This compulsion to bring something tangible to feel valued is partly warm-glow giving—where the giver gets emotional satisfaction—and partly social exchange theory, which suggests social behavior is transactional. But real connection isn’t.

This pattern seeps into my work, too. I obsess over the frame rather than the content. Instead of improving the quality of my podcast and interviewing, I fixate on the branding, design, website—how it looks rather than if it resonates.

Lately, over-polished packaging signals worse quality to me. I want my massage therapist to have a website that looks like it’s still 1998. That tells me they’re so good they don’t need sleek branding. Or a restaurant owner who’d rather spend time polishing a glass than posting on Instagram (

The Angel

).

Yet we believe an online presence is necessary, but in reality it’s just one tool, and like a hostess gift—it can be helpful, but isn’t a guarantee. What determines if you get invited back isn’t what you walked in with; it’s the feeling you leave people with when you walk out.

Like at a party, I attempt to justify my presence online, too. I will over-edit an episode or essay to make it worthy of sharing. Because publishing without a reason feels like arriving empty-handed.

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See Ya on The Flip Side

I thought about what it feels like to receive a gift. It’s often delightful, sometimes it gets re-gifted, but it never changes how I feel about the giver. The same goes for my work—I want to believe my presence is enough.

Perfect is boring. I don’t want my friends’ carefully curated presence—I want someone real. And when I read a newsletter or listen to an interview, I want to hear someone human, with shifting perspectives—not a robot.

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What Would My Life Look Like If I Tried Less?

Last night, passing by Cookbook, I went to dinner empty-handed and experimented with pretending I was enough as I was. It was surprisingly fine.

So I wondered if I could live this way all the time: how would my life change if I could sustain this belief?

For starters, I’d probably be on time more—without changing outfits a dozen times to feel “enough.” I’d get more done, since I wouldn’t be paralyzed by anxiety over how I’d be perceived.

I still question whether I’m enough empty-handed. But I’m working on believing that an invitation means they want me there. I don’t have to prove that through my potluck contribution or outfit.

This tendency feels familiar—something Internal Family Systems (IFS) would probably trace back to the middle schooler who didn’t get invited to parties that lives inside me. But I’m a grown up now, so time to get over it…I could always be a better podcast or party host, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try as I am.

Maybe the interview or essay is okay to share without being “perfect”—because it’s practice. And without sharing, how can I improve?

Thanks for reading

Love,

kd

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**Related reading:

In this issue about how branding has never mattered, and here about how the millennial rebrands are making everything look the same.

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NEW EPISODE
(FAVORITE OF THE YEAR SO FAR)

special thanks to

Kactus.jpg

/

Bite Sized

for inviting me to a dinner to meet Blu

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PS.

Leah Vanderveldt

interviewed me about my style of all things! it was an honor here’s that interview if you’d like to read it.

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for more cakes and dates believe it or not i’m on ig: @katiedalebout @letitouttt