Why Every Host Needs to Be a Guest

Refuge Ranch Lodge

Friday, August 29, 2025

Labor Day weekend wasn’t supposed to happen. With a wedding unfolding the same weekend at L’Eau Hill and new staff transitions, there were more reasons to stay put than to leave. But something in me kept tugging. A reminder that sometimes the work of hospitality isn’t about what you’re giving, but what you allow yourself to receive.

We booked Refuge Ranch almost at the last minute. On paper, it sounded idyllic: a private lake on fifty acres, horses grazing the pastures, hiking trails that stretched out like invitations. But the arrival told another story first. The long drive down a dirt road. The stretch of emptiness where you can’t yet see what’s ahead. That slight hesitation of wondering if you’re in the right place.

And then, the reveal. The climb up the drive opened to something breathtaking. A lake so still it felt painted. Horses at ease in the distance. A house that looked as though it belonged exactly there, waiting. I sat in my car for a moment, just taking it in, realizing this is what people must feel when they arrive at our properties. That pause between uncertainty and wonder.

For a weekend, I got to remember what it feels like to be the guest. The messaging from our host was thoughtful before we ever arrived: quick responses, honest guidance about what was in season, creative suggestions when plans shifted. I never met her face to face, yet I felt held by her care. That’s the quiet magic of true hospitality: presence without performance, attentiveness that doesn’t have to be seen to be felt.

The weekend itself was simple. We grilled burgers and fish. We hiked. We played cards late into the night. We laid in the grass with no agenda. These weren’t extravagant moments, but they carried a kind of ease I don’t often give myself. It reminded me that the soul of gathering isn’t always in the grand gestures, but in the everyday rhythms a space makes possible.

I thought often about Norwood’s Ranch, the third venue we’ve been dreaming toward. Refuge gave me language for what we hope to create: a place where wilderness and welcome meet. Where dirt roads don’t mean roughness, but discovery. Where horses grazing and lakes reflecting remind us that nature itself can be the host.

Hospitality is a cycle. We host, and we must also let ourselves be hosted. That weekend reminded me that the best spaces hold people, exactly as they are, and give them room to breathe.

Sometimes, the most important reset isn’t stepping further into your role. It’s stepping out of it long enough to remember why it matters.