I was born in a small hospital in rural Michigan on my mom’s 33rd. birthday. Every year I added our ages together and put that number on one cake. I don’t know how she felt about that, but I’d say it was a nice gesture.
What I want to write about today is friendship. Community. Those people that take over after parents have passed away. I read/heard/saw somewhere at some time a comment about how friendship is protective. How community is protective. That’s resonating a lot lately.
It’s like this. Sometimes, it’s actually better for your overall wellbeing to go out and have a slice of pizza with a friend than it is to stay at home eating chia pudding. Nothing wrong with the chia seeds, of course. But friendship is protective.
Last night I had dinner at a friend’s house. I played with her cats and used my ridiculous cat voice in front of her and others. I gasped at the beautiful view from her balcony. I drank aperol spritz and ate a boatload of pasta salad. And I spoke about my life, in front of them, to the best of my ability.
Sometimes it’s hard to be seen, even with trusted friends. The idea of letting your story, whatever it is, matter enough to you that you don’t edit it or try to get it out quickly. It’s fighting that assumption that they aren’t interested or you’re not valuable enough to be heard. I was happy to find them interested enough to give me space and let my story flow freely.
Sure, this doesn’t always happen. Everybody’s pretty wrapped up in their own life, their own narrative, their own assumptions, fears, doubts, and need to tell you all about it. But hopefully, over time, we’ll learn to gravitate toward those people who want to take you in and hold that space open for you to take a pause between sentences. Here’s to the dream.
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