To All The Friends I’ve Loved Before

I grew up as the middle child, smack dab between two brothers, and there are two things you need to know about us. 

The first is that we bonded almost exclusively over sarcasm, teasing each other unyieldingly, and referencing lines from The Office. 

And the second is that we solved arguments mostly by socking each other. 

 “If the floor is vibrating, it means your Christian Screamo is TOO LOUD!”  

“I am going to pluck my eyes out if I have to watch the pencil scene from “The Dark Knight” one more time!” 

“It’s your turn to sleep on the hotel’s lumpy pull-out cot/sit in the back of the van/share a bed with the-sibling-who-steals-blankets!” 

Long story short: one of us would end up socking the other, and we’d just get on with our day. Immature as our conflict “resolution” strategy was, we all relished its simplicity and the fact that none of us had to talk about our feelings (ew). 

Fast forward to living on an all-girls floor my freshman year in college, and it’s probably not a shock that I became friends with nearly every guy on the floor above me before I befriended even one girl.  

It’s not that I didn’t know how to be friends with girls or that I had never had close girl friends (I had). It’s just that, making friends with boys came much more easily. Maybe it was because boys tended to maintain more casual friendships and required less self-disclosure. Or maybe it was because friendships with girls often seemed twisty and confusing. Maybe it was because I had perfected the “art” of waiting for the other shoe to drop—of remaining hyper-vigilant about the vibes other women were sending. Maybe it was just because, at the end of the day, I was reluctant to wade through it all again—especially on a college campus where the stakes seemed higher than they’d ever been.  It all sounded exhausting. 

The truth was, despite being female myself, having friendships with other females who all lived together on the same campus…? Well, honestly, it scared the shit out of me. 

Listen, I did try. Sort of. I had moderate hopes for becoming friends with the girl living nextdoor, but as it turned out, she ran cross country and bought trendy olive skinny jeans from the Gap and just had that Private-Christian-University-Cool-Girl vibe (read: exposed midriff, Ugg boots, MacBook Pro, circle of friends laughing as their highlighted hair blew in the breeze). 

I did not have this vibe. I played ultimate frisbee with the commuter students, wore bootcut jeans two sizes too big from Kohl’s, and was asked at least three times if I was homeschooled (I attended public school K-12).

But the boys—god bless the boys. The boys did not care where my pants were from. They high-fived me and proclaimed, “Dude, yes!” when I invited them to play ultimate frisbee. They did not care that I holed up and actually studied for a one credit gym class final exam. They did not hold grudges, nor did they twist their words or give pointed looks. They were fluent in my native tongues: sarcasm, The Office jokes, goofy jabs, boyish humor. Sometimes they would even let me sock them. 

In fact, most Friday nights my freshman year of college were spent squishing into my friend Sam’s sedan with six other guys (no, we did not wear seatbelts due to our severely under-developed prefrontal cortexes). We’d drive to Perkins at midnight and eat apps before coming back and falling asleep in the commons room.

(What a rager. No wonder people thought I was homeschooled.)

* * *

My junior year, I roomed with three other women, and the only thing I cared about was focusing exclusively on my GPA and my boyfriend (God bless my 20-year-old heart). 

That September, my biggest fear was that my roommates were, God forbid, expecting to be actual friends with me—like, deep, soul, friends. So I was excruciatingly up front with them before our first classes even began. I reminded them that I was very busy with student teaching and TA-ing and leading worship at church and all-the-things—that our relationship would be more “roommates” and less “friends” (no offense). That I was often away, usually studying or…no, wait….yup, just studying. 

Basically, the general message I was trying to send was: kindly stay away from me—it’s not you, it’s me. To be honest, it’s incredible I didn’t torpedo these relationships before they even began, because I sure as hell tried. 

The problem was, these girls just wouldn’t let up. Moment by moment, they insisted on loving me even if I was reluctant to receive it (let alone return it).

There was the time I called Jenny early on a Sunday morning, and she skipped church (AKA the holy grail of sacrificial friendship at a private Christian university) to drive across town and pick me up when I had no clue who else to call. 

There was the time I could not stop throwing up after flying home from Kenya and shook Emma awake at some ungodly hour. She gave me Pepto Bismol, snapped me out of my puking phobia-induced panic, walked me back to bed, and didn’t even get mad when I accidentally threw away her medicine cup the next morning. 

There was the time Whitney stocked my dorm room with Gatorade and cold medicine when I came down with a sinus infection at the worst possible moment. And she was gracious when I insisted that I was going to be an African missionary before “decorating” my side of the dorm room with a giant world map and African relics (#dontwasteyourlife #IYKYK).

Then there was the time all three of them endured my general insufferableness while long-distance dating my boyfriend (now husband). 

All of it shocked me to my core—how much friends (girl friends!) could really love you—inadequacies, foibles, and all without demanding anything in return. 

* * *

A decade later, I find myself raising two daughters, and this is what I call irony. 

Because I have no idea what I’m doing (as a mother of girls or as a friend to other mothers) I pray often for their sisterhood—their most important friendship—not to mention all the other friendships they may have. What is it that I want them to hold onto about sharing a life with other women? Can I erase that tired narrative of scarcity—of competition and envy and hurtful words and manipulation that seem to invade so easily?

Never fully, at least on this side of Heaven. But I can tell them, show them a hundred times a day, all the ways my girl friends have loved me and changed how I live and love, in return. I want them to remember, on some instinctual level:

Keep believing the best about each other. Do not be surprised by each other’s fallibility. Do not be surprised by your own. 

If life insists that you put up walls (and it will), let your girl friends knock down the first bricks.

Look each other in the eyes. Speak the fears out loud that live deep in your bones. 

Most of all, keep turning towards each other, holding space for each other. 

Keep showing up until you find yourself unraveling the darkest parts of your heart and they love you more for it.