Last week, I took a train to the northern part of England and visited one of my life-long friends who now lives there with her husband. I was able to see their new home, their neighborhood. To get a fuller, deeper sense of their lives that you can’t really gather from a group chat. We took the walk by the sea they take on weekends, visited their favorite market, took the train they catch into the city center, stood in the sweet garden they have big plans for. More than once, my friend and I looked at each other and thought: Isn’t it weird that we’re here? That we met each other as kids in Tampa, Florida, and now this is your house and you live here and I’m here visiting you, too?
I imagine this is probably just part of getting older and settling into your life, your home, your career. You have more moments of stepping back and marveling at it than you did in your 20s, when you’re constantly spinning your wheels, trying to find purpose, money, friends, happiness, love. It’s not like I’ve reached 30 and all of those things are firmly in my hands now, like I can kick up my feet and exhale, exclaim that it’s all good now, all clear. But it does feel like it’s easier now to take a step back than it used to, doesn’t it? To see the big picture, to trace the path of your life, the ups and downs, the hard lefts and hard rights and u-turns — to name the things that didn’t really matter, and what always did. I’m not naive enough to think that this won’t all change again, of course. But during these past 10 days in England, I found myself thinking a lot about my friendships, in particular. New friends. Old friends. The strangeness which is trying to make friends in adulthood. Tracing the path of it all in my own life.
For much of my 20s, I fantasized about having lots of friends. I wanted the jam-packed birthday parties, the hours-long brunches, the full social calendar, the thrill of running into people you know at a party because you’re the person who seems to know everyone. I wanted to go from a friend’s birthday dinner to another friend’s engagement party, to be tagged in the images of dozens of happy-looking people smushed together in a restaurant booth. I watched people play bridesmaid month after month, year after year, and I wondered what it meant that I had never been one. I often daydreamed about hosting a wedding full of dozens of people I had known over the years, all the evidence I’d ever need that — what? I was popular? I was loved? I was interesting? I was funny? At the time, I think I was doing the thing most of us are in our 20s, trying to find my place within a community, a social circle, to feel safe and loved and supported. But I also think that I viewed friendships the way a lot of people view busy-ness — an outward symbol of success more than anything truly, deeply satisfying. And yet, as the years passed, I found myself shrinking away from most of it, anyway, from the brunches and the parties and the effort of it all. I decided that I had a close, small group of friends that I had known for years. None of them lived anywhere close to me, but that was ok. As I approached 30, I began to think: Well, why isn’t that enough? Why do I need to keep trying? What if having fewer friends is better, anyway?
In a lot of ways, this felt like relief. I (mostly) stopped feeling self-conscious that I didn’t have some large, sprawling, buzzy social circle that I hung out with every weekend. I didn’t feel pressure to ask people out to coffee, or to say yes when people asked me. I nurtured the long-distance friendships I did have, went on trips, sent daily video messages, responded in the group chat. I felt satisfied and supported. And then I went on my first group trip to Vermont earlier this year. I met all these other women from all over the country who loved the same things I did. We shared this experience together and we laughed and talked and confided in each other for hours. And I left that trip understanding, for maybe the first time, that part of why I had given up on cultivating some giant social group years ago was that I had been looking for the wrong thing. I thought I had wanted more friends, when really what I needed was connection.
It would be fair if you’re now asking: Uh, isn’t that the same thing? And, hey, maybe it is the same thing for you. Maybe every single one of your friendships offers real, meaningful connection. That’s pretty special. But I would venture to guess that for a lot of us, in adulthood, that’s not really what friendship feels like at all. Sometimes it feels like convenience, or simply a result of sharing one thing in common: Children, a job, a workout class. I’m not saying these relationships are meaningless or hollow or silly. Of course not. They hold their own unique, solid value. What I am saying is that I used to think that these types of relationships would fill me up and satisfy me, and when they didn’t, I stopped trying to find connection altogether. And then I went on the Vermont trip. And this past week, the England trip, too. And though no form of group travel is without its hiccups or initial get-to-know-you awkwardness, I can honestly say now that it’s never been clear to me that what I’ve been craving all along, when I was 20 and now, too, is true, deep, meaningful connection.
Not brunches. Or birthday parties. Or a calendar full of bachelorette trips and weddings. Not a guest list full of people who will show up for a cocktail party or comment ‘congrats!’ on a post sharing good news. Not small talk or tip-toeing or politeness. None of that. I want to talk to people who get it, who make me feel safe enough to share what scares me the most or what excites me or what moves me. And, yes, I understand that none of that is mutually exclusive, of course. That community is important, and sometimes you just want to know that you have some people to invite over for a glass of wine, or a dinner, or a movie night. I also get that sometimes all the more surface-level stuff needs to exist to lead to something deeper.
Actually, I perhaps get that more than ever this year, as I’ve moved to a new, small town, and it’s been painfully obvious to me how much I don’t have any of that, more so than it ever was in Philly, where even if I didn’t have a large social circle, I was constantly surrounded by people, anyway. This year, much like in my early-to-mid 20’s, I’ve often felt like I should have more friends and wondered once again what it meant if I didn’t have a group of people to have over to see my new home, or to make dinner for, or to share a bottle of wine with on the porch as the sun sets. I’ve fantasized about hosting packed parties in the back garden. I’ve considered whether that is the thing that would make me feel satisfied, settled, successful.
When I agreed to host group trips last year, I had no idea I’d be living in a new town and a new home when those trips came around. I had no idea what to expect at all, really. The very last thing I expected, maybe, was true connection. Friendship? Sure. Fun? Definitely. But real, meaningful connection? No, I never anticipated that, if I was being honest, even if I really wanted it. After all, it was only a few days, right? And yet, I can say now, on the heels of two life-changing trips, that that’s exactly what I found. The trips felt like dozens — hundreds, maybe — of brunches and birthday parties and coffee dates and heart-to-hearts all bundled into this one intense, bright, gorgeous thing. And with each trip, I’ve left feeling buoyed by this net of support — not some reassurance that I’m now going to have someone to hang out with every weekend, or to brag about on my Instagram, or to invite to my birthday party, but a solid web of connection, of understanding, of comfort. I met people who get it. Who get me. I sat across from people who had been strangers to me days earlier and talked about everything important and scary to me, and they got it. What’s more rare than that? What’s more beautiful?
I’m back in New York now, and have come home to full-on fall. Most of the leaves outside are deep greenish-gold, a whisper of orange bleeding through here and there. I still don’t have friend dates scheduled. I have no dinner parties planned. I still can’t call someone up and have them be here in a few minutes. And yet I feel satisfied, happy. Content. Less alone. Less concerned with the dinner parties and friend dates and coffee meet-ups. I’m asking less questions about what it means that I don’t know more people or have more friends here yet. I feel energized, and inspired, and peaceful, and so much like myself, all because I met so many people who seemed to see me, too. And all of this happening as I’m as on my own as I was before, in most outward ways.
And look, I know it’s not an either-or thing. I know that you can have deep, meaningful connections and/or packed dinner parties (with acquaintances and close friends alike) at the same time. But I guess as I find myself in this season of starting from zero when it comes to friendships, and in many ways experiencing loneliness in different ways than I have before, I am trying to remind myself that what I really, truly want isn’t actually the large social circle. The packed calendar. The garden dinner parties with a bunch of people I half-know. The outward performance of what it means to be popular. I just want connection. And, yes, I want it with people in my community, of course. But I also think connection is rare, and that if I find it elsewhere, it’s ok to feel satisfied and content with that, too.
I used to have a mental picture of My Best Self that included a network of close friends who were right there. The best friend who comes over for a casual cup of coffee. The standing monthly double date with other couple friends. The person I call to go see a movie with on a random Sunday afternoon. Whatever. You get it. And now I’m thinking… all of that sounds great, yes, but what if My Best Self looks different? What if I put my social energy into yearly group trips instead of endless get-to-know-you coffee dates? What if I decide to wrap up all the small talk and bonding into one package every year? What if I find true connection that way, instead of, or at least, in addition to, all the other stuff? What if I’m as satisfied with that as I’m supposed to be with traditional friendship? I guess what I’m saying is that if I reframe it in my mind, and true, deep connection becomes the most important thing, then maybe what friendship is “supposed” to look like stops to matter as much. Maybe I put my effort toward something else. Maybe that’s ok.
I recorded a mini podcast before I left for England about whether or not I will do group trips in the future, and my plan was to publish it while I was on my England group trip. In the end, though, I had a feeling I’d have even more thoughts on group travel after this trip, so I held off on publishing it, and as it turns out… I was right! I’ll be re-recording that episode with my updated thoughts on group travel and what it will look like in the future, plus adding some expanded thoughts on friendship at 30… and don’t worry, I’ll get to those other FAQs I mentioned at the end of last week’s Substack post (house updates, ‘forever home’ FAQs, and more) in a future mini pod.
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I relate to this so deeply. I'm in a very similar place: all of my closest friends live in different states and I have a very small group of friends in the same city as me, but they're mainly my fiance's friends. I just got engaged and am finding that starting to plan a wedding is bringing out A LOT of insecurities I have about friendship. I keep wondering, "Will people even come? Everyone is busy, people have jobs and kids, what if they can't make the time?" Some of my mother's friends offered to host a bridal shower for me and my first thought was, "But who would I invite?" I'll probably only have a few bridesmaids. Like you, I'm working on being content and tending to the relationships I do have, while staying open to new ones.
Woof. It's hard. It's hard! You're not alone.
The line about questioning why you’ve never been a bridesmaid was like a little gut punch to me and so relatable to me. At 40 now, I too had made much more peace with connection over quantity. I think technology has really helped this over the years. My best friend lives in Denmark and I am just outside Vancouver in Canada, and the distance doesn’t really matter. Being able to send voice notes and vids make it feel like we are closer than if we lived down the street from one another about caught up in busy lives.