Belonging is a powerful human need. It is the quiet assurance that we are known, welcomed, and not alone. Yet even in busy lives and crowded rooms, many of us quietly carry a sense of isolation.
My daughter, Hannah Mills, is a gifted writer, and in her story she invites us to remember a simpler time — when homes and hearts were open, and hospitality was a way of life. She shows us that belonging can begin with small, intentional acts: a door opened, a table set, and the courage to invite others in.
It might be surprising how many people feel lonely even while surrounded by busy schedules and crowded rooms. Hannah’s story encourages us to ask ourselves: what might we do to create a lived open-door experience for the lost, the lonely, the grieving, or anyone who feels they don’t belong?
- Introduction by Jeannine Lewis
The death of the drop in
There was a time when an unexpected knock at the door was a cause for excitement, not alarm. A time when we didn’t flinch or mute ourselves into silence, ducking behind the blinds to pretend we weren’t home. The humble drop-in - once a staple of suburban social life - has quietly faded into near extinction, replaced by digital calendars, polite texts and the looming pressure to have a clean, unlived-in house in case (god forbid) someone calls in unannounced. How did we get here and how can we bring the ‘drop-in’ back to life?
One of my fondest childhood memories is my family’s weekend ritual of casually dropping in on friends - no text, no warning - just pure social spontaneity. Sometimes there’d be a quick call on the landline to check if anyone was home (and by “quick,” I mean interrupting someone’s dial-up internet), but more often than not, we’d just hop in the car and cruise around until we spotted a car in the driveway or caught sight of someone through the window who looked too polite to turn us away. These unplanned drop-ins regularly turned into long lunches, bottomless cups of tea and lazy afternoons that felt like they could stretch on forever.
On the flip side, being at home on a weekend and hearing the doorbell ring used to be thrilling. Now it mostly signals a parcel, a politician or someone trying to convert you to something!
For much of my childhood we lived on quiet culdesacs, where the neighbourhood kids would play outside until dusk and take turns knocking on each others’ doors to ask the kids to come out and play. We’d come home with dirty feet, scraped knees and stories to tell.
These days, it feels like any plans need to be made weeks, if not months, in advance. Trying to catch up with friends now often feels like coordinating a G20 summit - calendars compared, polls sent, dates pushed back... and eventually we just give up and send each other memes or like each other’s Instagram stories instead.
While life is certainly busier than it was back then, I get the feeling that it’s not just that. To me, it seems the notion of ‘dropping in’ is somewhat of a lost social norm. That turning up on someone’s door step unannounced might even be considered a little bit rude.
We've become so conditioned to checking in via text before calling, to scheduling every interaction, that the idea of someone just showing up feels almost rebellious. But maybe that’s exactly what we need. A reminder that connection doesn’t always have to be pencilled in weeks in advance.
Wanting to dive a little deeper into the topic of drop-ins, I decided there was no one better to chat to than my own mum, who has always been an amazing host but a true champion of the
importance of putting the work into maintaining regular contact with the people that mean the most to us. Because that’s really what it comes down to.
Growing up, my mum fondly recalls that weekends involved a constant stream of visitors to her family’s home in Canberra. “There would always be family, friends or neighbours coming to visit or stay for the weekend, where we’d share time together over meals at home, picnics or bushwalks,” says mum. “Sunday lunch was pretty much always shared with friends, and as a teenager it became the meal that I prepared for the family. My parents often welcomed visitors who were working in Canberra on government postings for weekly meals - a home away from home.”
Those moments of hospitality weren’t just family values of times gone by - they were a way of life that filtered into our own home once my siblings and I were born. As a kid, it felt completely normal for neighbours or friends to show up unannounced. Mum had this effortless way of making people feel welcome, always able to stretch whatever we had in the fridge into a meal big enough to share.
Looking back, those weekends felt full - of laughter, stories and a steady rhythm of people coming and going. There was comfort in that kind of openness, in knowing that someone might knock on the door simply because they were nearby and wanted to say hello. Now, Mum says she rarely expects anyone to drop in. “These days if the doorbell rings, I assume it’s someone trying to sell me something - or save me.”
So why did we stop dropping in? Mum also wonders if it’s partly because life just feels busier these days. “People are flat out trying to survive the day-to-day. Back then, it seemed like weekends had a slower rhythm - and maybe there was just more space for spontaneous visiting.”
And while I’ll admit much of my weekend is spent doing the washing, meal prep and housework (thankfully shared with my husband), if I can make time for a few Netflix episodes, surely I can also make time to call in on friends - or welcome them into my home?
But it’s not just about time. The way we connect has changed too. These days, it’s so easy to send a quick text or scroll through social media that sometimes it feels like we’ve traded real visits for virtual ones. There’s something comforting about the screen, but it can also make dropping by feel a bit foreign.
Plus, people seem more protective of their privacy now. Our homes are our personal retreats, not quite the open doors they once were. And with many of us juggling packed schedules - work, kids’ activities, appointments - the thought of an unexpected visitor can sometimes feel like one more thing to manage rather than a welcome surprise.
There’s also the sense that we don’t want to impose or catch someone at a bad time. Social anxiety, or just the awareness of busy lives, means many of us hesitate before knocking on a neighbour’s door without warning.
I’ll admit, part of me worries about the laundry still on the couch, unmade beds or the crumbs under the table. But I’m learning that people don’t remember spotless homes - they remember how they felt when they were in them. And a cup of tea served in a cluttered kitchen while catching up with friends still tastes and feels just as good as it does in a spotless one.
My idea to overcome this? Hosting a monthly “drop-in” morning tea for friends - whether they know each other or not. Somewhat ironically, this did involve a bit of planning and rescheduling. I set up a Facebook invite to a whole range of friends, and despite having to reschedule twice, we held the first one in May. While some RSVPs were locked in early, part of the fun was not actually knowing who would come.
Sure, it’s not as spontaneous as the drop-ins of old - a little planning is still needed to make it happen - but it’s a step in the right direction. It’s about creating space for unexpected connections within a gentle framework, a chance to drop in on each other without the pressure of a formal event or rigid schedule. Sometimes, making a little room for spontaneity means building it first.
In the end, four families dropped by. Some stayed for half an hour, others for most of the morning. I baked a few things (okay, maybe more than a few), sliced up some homemade bread (nothing says ‘spontaneous’ like the two-day process of making sourdough!) and my husband took up his post by the coffee machine, making sure everyone stayed caffeinated. The house was full in the best kind of way - kids playing, adults chatting, no rush or structure. Just a little pocket of connection in a life that often feels too scheduled.
What surprised me most was how easy and joyful it all felt. No pressure, no timeline - just coffee, conversation and the gentle chaos of people being together. It reminded me that we don’t need perfect homes or curated plans to make people feel welcome - just the willingness to open the door.
Other ideas could be to host casual drop-in afternoons with board games or a shared meal, a weekend potluck where neighbours can wander in as they please. The key is creating a low-pressure, open-door space where friends, family and neighbours feel comfortable dropping by - no formal RSVP required, no agenda, just time to connect and catch up when life allows.
And maybe, in doing so, we’ll start hearing the doorbell ring a little more often - not with dread, but with that familiar flicker of excitement. Just like it used to be.
by Hannah Mills