Three Friends
A weekend of gratitude.
[Note: time is not real! This essay was written mid-Spring, and finished last week]
I’ve been feeling the weight of moving to a new City lately. I love Brooklyn in the storybook way I always dreamed I would, and it is exhausting to be surrounded by Newness 24/7. I’ve made so many friends and have a real sense of community, but there is a certain loneliness that comes from spending time with people who don’t know all of you yet. That’s the thing they don’t tell you about moving - no matter how many people you meet and hit it off with, it really just takes time to make an old friend.
But in the magical way manifestations always sneak in, my weekend was filled to the brim with nostalgia and my three oldest friends, just when I needed them most.
Sarah
After a week of cold, gray spring weather, the Friday forecast of high 70s and sunshine inspired me to play hooky from my computer and soak up the sun. I texted Sarah to join me days in advance in eager anticipation. Texting Sarah to hang out casually is a perk I never thought New York would give me. Sarah moved to Brooklyn from New Orleans in the fall. After a decade of living in different states and different time zones, we are now a 10-minute drive apart. The majority of our time as friends has been long-distance, but our friendship foundation is rock solid - formed at a critical point in our lives. Sarah and I bonded in high school art classes, in slumber party basements, in hot-boxed cars parked in lots after hours, and in countless formative teen adventures. Sarah is, and always has been, the coolest person I know. The fact that she chooses to be my friend has always been the highest compliment. When everyone was wearing skinny jeans and Hollister tops, Sarah wore flowy harem pants, tank tops, and her signature olive green oversized cardigan. She shopped at Urban Outfitters and American Apparel while we shopped at Aeropostale. By the time the rest of us finally started dressing that well, she was years ahead again. In 2014, she drank kombucha filled with chia seeds as she worked on her exceptional oil paintings. I had never heard of kombucha or chia seeds. One of her high school artworks has hung in every apartment I’ve ever lived in, and it is the most complimented thing I own. Sarah had a small, faded pink backpack that hid her travel-size hookah set up. It had a stain on the bottom that was always wet somehow. Her childhood room had light teal walls covered in clippings, drawings, concert, and museum tickets. Laying in her jewel toned draped bed - angled out from the corner of the room (so cool) I would admire all her things and felt like I was inside a tumblr photo. Now her room is a mix of neutrals and pops of red. Her nightstand is made of stacked cement blocks, and her desk is a dining room table she found on the sidewalk, covered in the drawings that endlessly pour out of her. The lighting is warm and glowy. Her closet is filled with things you want to touch. An accordion sits on her floor next to her trombone, which she has been taking lessons for. She has a crush on her tutor. Sarah always has a crush. She sees beauty and whimsy and magic so easily, and she sees it in people. When I think of an artist, I think of Sarah.
On Friday, we discussed our latest crushes and the infinite pros and cons of lust and romance. Sarah has known or known of nearly every boy I’ve ever kissed. Eventually, we settled into our activities. Sarah worked on a crossword puzzle, and I started a new book - On The Road, a high school assignment I skipped many years ago. Sarah reminded me of the other books we read in school and the authors whose names I forgot. Sarah is very good at remembering.
Paige
On Saturday, Paige made the trek from Hoboken to Brooklyn to attend the James Blake concert together. According to Paige, James Blake is one of the best artists to choreograph contemporary dance to, and he was the soundtrack to many of the aforementioned hot-boxing sessions. But Paige’s and my friendship started before our high school adventure days. Paige and I sat across from each other on the first day of second grade, which was also my first day at my new school. We were class friends then, but it wasn’t until we bunked together at sleepaway camp when we were 12 that we reached BFF status. Paige then connected me to most of my friends from that point on. Sarah included, and Chris, too (we’ll get to him). Paige’s room was also teal, but in a way that reminded you of the beach more than a jewel box. Her room was filled with matching light wood furniture, and we spent what felt like a lifetime lying on the beige carpet and talking. Paige and I discuss everything. She is a very good listener and gives very good advice. Like her room and her advice, Paige appreciates order and simplicity, but is never rigid. This makes sense for someone who’s danced her whole life. I would attend Paige’s recitals and watch in disbelief as she effortlessly performed what I knew to be quite complicated moves. Paige exudes empathy and care. Everyone in her life feels seen and loved by her and trusts her deeply. Paige loves the things she loves. She loves her family. She loves her work helping children as an SLP. She loves dance and dance videos. She loves Golden Retrievers. And she loves her Golden Retriever of a husband. Paige says she’s not creative, but she is elegant, intentional, and clear. She knows what she wants, and she creates it with focus and confidence. Paige believes in right and wrong, but has never made me feel criticized for my grayer decisions. She is an exceptional friend.
After the concert, which was phenomenal by the way, Paige and I finished our pre-concert joint and watched Survivor reruns before she fell asleep halfway into episode 1.
Chris
Paige left after breakfast on Sunday, but before I could miss her, Chris arrived at my door. Chris was also in those hot boxed cars after hours, but through college, cross-state moves, and the passage of time, everyone has fallen out of touch with one another, except for me. College was when I learned I am very good at maintaining long-distance friendships, and my friends and I are all mutually grateful for this natural talent. Chris lives in Baltimore, but his regular outdoor adventures in the Northeast result in regular NYC drop-ins. He’s here for lunch and an afternoon of nothing together. I catch him this time after a wedding weekend, but he tells me all about the upcoming feat he’s planning. Next on the docket is running all 48 of New Hampshire’s White Mountain peaks, which is over 17,000 feet of elevation gain over 270 miles, in 6 days. Chris was number one in track for the state of Maryland when we were in school, and after a successful D1 career in sprinting, he decided to try his hand at long-distance running. Marathons were too easy, and he quickly found himself entering the world of ultra running. His first 100-mile race (as in 3.8 marathons in a row) was through the forest in Arkansas. 11 people started, 9 finished, and he came in first place after a quick 29-hour run. Chris’s mental fortitude and endurance are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, and yet he’s really just a goofy, internet-meme-brain-rot, nature-loving dude. Chris talks primarily in niche meme references and vocal stims. When he was in grad school, he compared most things to neurons and biological terms. In high school, Chris worked at a running shoe store and continued there through grad school. Now he’s a physical therapist who specializes with runners. Chris loves to run. I hate running. Chris and I bond over laughing, gossiping, our love for the outdoors, the intersection of science, psychology, and spirituality, and taking turns unpacking all of our thoughts and feelings on any given subject.
Chris and I go stretches without talking, but he’s always paying attention to what I am up to. He is extremely supportive of everything I do and insists I am one of the most interesting people he knows. When I feel down, he has empathy, but mostly his frustration that I could ever doubt myself is enough to pump me back up. When I hit a rock-bottom cocktail of daily panic attacks, sobbing, and depression last year, I’d call Chris to give me enough dopamine to get up and brush my teeth. We planned a trip to my favorite National Park so I had something to look forward to amongst my struggles, and at the darkest points I would think “I have to stick around because I really want to go on that trip.”
By the time our Utah trip finally arrived, I had already reached a long-awaited level of acceptance and inner peace. Our rental car was upgraded to a Ford Bronco, and the first song we played was Taylor Swift. The 5-day stretch was one of the best travel experiences of my life. It was a victory lap to celebrate making it out of the worst hole I’d ever been in, and Chris was there cheering every step of the way. He may compete independently as an athlete, but Chris is a wonderful teammate.
Wishing you all a life of chosen family with friends who see every corner of your soul and decide they’d like to stick around. And if that’s not what your relationships look like right now, a gentle reminder: you deserve nothing less than to be loved fully by the people you choose to have in your orbit. xoxo
Julia