Well Versed-ish

There comes a point in adulthood when you realize that friendship might actually be the most underrated love story of your life.

Romantic relationships get the grand gestures, the carefully curated playlists, the dramatic declarations, and approximately 97% of the music industry’s attention. Meanwhile, friendship is somewhere in the background, quietly holding your life together with a group chat, unsolicited advice, and a perfectly timed “Girl, absolutely not.”

And frankly, I think we need to discuss that.

Because somewhere between growing up and growing into ourselves, friendships become less about who you see every weekend and more about who you can count on when the weekend is the least of your concerns.

When we were younger, friendship was largely a matter of proximity. We sat next to each other in class, lived around the corner, shared a lunch table, or had the same questionable taste in boys. Maintaining a friendship was relatively easy when your biggest scheduling conflict was whether your mother would let you spend the night.

Adulthood, however, has entered the chat.

Now there are careers, children, marriages, mortgages, responsibilities, and calendars that require a congressional hearing to coordinate brunch. Some of us are building businesses. Some are pursuing degrees. Some are raising families. Some are trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up, despite having technically been grown for quite some time.

And somehow, through all of that, we’re still finding ways to show up for each other.

The audacity. The beauty. The absolute privilege.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience friendship in ways that have fundamentally shaped who I am.

And I’m not just talking about the fun stuff. Although, for the record, my friends and I have had some very good times.

I’m talking about the kind of friendship that becomes part of the foundation you’re standing on.

There was a time when I needed medical books, and my friends helped me pay for them.

Not because I asked them to invest in some grand business venture. Not because there was a return on investment waiting at the end. But because they believed in something I was trying to accomplish, and they wanted to make sure I had what I needed to get there.

I don’t think I’ve ever fully found the words to explain what that meant to me.

Because it wasn’t just about the books.

It was about having people who looked at a dream that hadn’t materialized yet and decided it was worth investing in anyway.

They believed in the doctor before the world had the opportunity to meet her.

And if that isn’t love, I’m not entirely sure what is.

The truth is, there have been plenty of moments when my friends believed in me more than I believed in myself.

Times when my confidence was running on fumes. When I questioned my abilities, my decisions, my timeline, and whether I was capable of becoming the person I envisioned.

And somehow, they never seemed nearly as confused about my potential as I was.

The nerve of these people to have so much faith in me when I was actively questioning everything.

But that’s what they do.

They remind me of accomplishments I’ve already dismissed. They speak about my future with a certainty I sometimes struggle to find. They celebrate milestones that I barely give myself permission to acknowledge before moving the goalpost again.

And perhaps most importantly, there have been times when my friends have loved me better than I knew how to love myself.

They’ve heard me cry over the man I loved when he broke my heart. They’ve listened as I tried to make sense of things that didn’t make sense, replayed conversations, questioned myself, and searched for answers they couldn’t possibly give me.

And they stayed on the phone anyway.

They didn’t need to have the perfect words. Sometimes there weren’t any. They just needed to remind me that even when one kind of love left me hurting, I was still surrounded by so much of it.

And then there have been the quieter moments. The ones when sadness felt heavier than I knew how to explain. When depression made even the simplest things feel exhausting, and finding the energy to participate in the world seemed like an unreasonable request.

I’ve had friends hear it in my voice, recognize what I wasn’t saying, and offer to come over just to sit with me and watch movies.

No elaborate plans. No expectation that I entertain them. No pressure to explain why I wasn’t myself.

Just, “I can come over. We don’t have to do anything.”

And honestly, sometimes that’s everything.

Because there’s a special kind of love in someone who doesn’t require you to be happy to enjoy your company.

Someone who understands that companionship doesn’t always need conversation. That being present can be more meaningful than offering advice. That sometimes the most generous thing you can give another person is the freedom to exist exactly as they are.

No performance necessary.

There’s something remarkable about the people who can hold your heartbreak and sit beside your sadness without making you feel like a burden.

The ones who let you be vulnerable without treating you as fragile. Who know you’re capable of finding your way through difficult seasons but don’t insist that you do it alone.

Because sometimes the greatest expression of love isn’t fixing anything.

It’s pulling up a seat, turning on a movie, and reminding someone that they don’t have to be alone in the room.

My friends have seen the ambitious version of me, the exhausted version, the overthinking version, the version with a five-year plan, and the version wondering whether the five-year plan needs a complete rewrite.

And somehow, they manage to love every single one.

Even the dramatic one.

Especially the dramatic one, apparently.

I think there’s something profoundly beautiful about being surrounded by people who can see your potential without overlooking your humanity.

People who understand that you can be strong and still need support. That you can be accomplished and still feel uncertain. That you can be the person everyone counts on and occasionally need someone to remind you that you don’t have to carry everything alone.

My friends have given me that.

And so much more.

They’ve given me laughter when life felt unnecessarily serious. They’ve given me perspective when I was too close to a situation to see it clearly. They’ve given me encouragement, prayers, opportunities, memories, and the occasional reality check that I absolutely did not request.

They’ve also given me something that becomes increasingly valuable with age: the freedom to be myself without explanation.

There’s a particular comfort in being known.

Not the polished, carefully edited version of yourself that the rest of the world encounters. I mean the version that exists when the performance is over.

The version that can answer the phone with an exasperated sigh and hear, “What happened now?” before saying a single word.

The version that can send a screenshot with absolutely no context because the context is understood.

The version that can laugh until your stomach hurts over something that would make absolutely no sense to anyone outside the friendship.

That’s intimacy, too.

And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the many ways friendship expresses itself.

Sometimes it’s a long conversation. Sometimes it’s a plane ticket, a birthday celebration, a thoughtful gift, or a simple “I saw this and thought of you.”

Sometimes it’s showing up for the big moments.

And sometimes it’s helping someone buy the books they need to chase a dream.

None of these gestures has to be extravagant to be extraordinary.

We spend so much time talking about finding our person that I sometimes wonder whether we overlook the people we’ve already found.

The friends who show up to graduations. The ones who celebrate the smallest victories as though you’ve just won a Grammy. The ones who know how much work went into an accomplishment because they were there for the late nights, the frustration, and the moments when quitting seemed considerably more appealing.

The ones who remember who you wanted to become long before you started believing it was possible.

Those are love stories, too.

Maybe they don’t come with engagement rings or anniversary trips. Maybe nobody writes an entire album about the friend who bought your textbooks, prayed over your future, or reminded you of your worth when you couldn’t quite see it.

Although, personally, I think that album would do numbers.

But the love is there.

In the check-ins. In the laughter. In the shared history. In the unwavering confidence that somebody has in you, even when yours is temporarily unavailable.

And I think that’s what makes friendship so extraordinary.

It’s the privilege of having people who aren’t obligated to walk through life beside you, but choose to anyway.

People who don’t just witness your story but become part of what makes it possible.

I often think about the woman I’m becoming, the dreams I’m pursuing, and the life I’m working so hard to build.

And while I’m proud of the work I’ve put in, I would be remiss not to acknowledge the people whose love has helped carry me along the way.

Because whatever I accomplish, there will always be pieces of my friends in the story.

In the books they helped me buy.

In the encouragement they offered.

In the confidence they lent me until I could find my own.

In the tears they listened to when my heart was breaking.

In the quiet afternoons they offered to spend beside me when I didn’t have the energy to do much of anything.

In the love they gave me before I fully understood how to give it to myself.

So, what about your friends?

I hope you have people who speak life into your dreams. People who celebrate you loudly, love you generously, and remind you of who you are when the world gets a little too loud.

I hope you have friendships that feel like home.

And I hope you never become so focused on the love you’re hoping to find that you forget to appreciate the love that’s already surrounding you.

Because a good friend is not a consolation prize while you’re waiting for some grand romantic love story.

Sometimes, the friendship is the grand love story.

And mine?

Well, I’ve been loved extraordinarily well.

Consider this your reminder to give your people their flowers.

You’re welcome.

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