I turned 45 this year, and in the stillness that follows such milestones, something became clear: painfully, undeniably clear. I don’t really have friends anymore.
The one who truly knew me, the one I could call when the night felt too vast and heavy, left this world in 2024. Now the voices I hear most belong to my husband, my three sons, and the clients who sit across from me in my therapy office. That’s the circle of my days. No spontaneous coffee dates, no meandering phone calls that drift from laughter to tears and back again, no random text with a meme that says, “This made me think of you.”
Life filled up, as it does. Children, marriage, the long climb through graduate school, the slow building of a practice. Friendships slipped away quietly, almost politely. I told myself I was fine. I had family. I had meaningful work. I was busy doing, achieving, holding it all together. But lately, in the spaces between doing, the quiet has begun to echo.
I miss being chosen, not by duty or blood or paycheck, but simply because someone wants to walk beside me for a while. I miss having a place to lay down the polished parts I wear so well and just be the messy, uncertain, still-grieving woman underneath.
All these years I’ve invited others to name their longing, to sit with the discomfort of needing, to reach out even when the hand trembles. And now the invitation turns back toward me. I need connection beyond family and work. I need a friend. Not a perfect soul, not someone with answers. Just someone real. Someone who knows what it’s like to feel a little alone in the middle of a full life.
Truth be told, this is part of why I’m beginning something in January: a small circle called Embracing Her. Eleven gatherings, eight women, every other Saturday. It is not therapy, though my years as a therapist will hold the container. It is simply a place to arrive as we are: midlife, changing, sometimes lonely, always human.
I’m tired of pretending I don’t need what every heart needs. As Rumi once whispered to the night, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” My wound right now is this quiet longing for friendship, and I’m choosing to let it be seen. I want to meet others in that same tender place, where we stop performing and start being. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.
I think of the word of Alan Watts, I think he would laugh gently and remind us that we are not separate waves struggling to connect; we are the ocean, playing at being apart. Yet here we are, in these temporary bodies, these fleeting stories, feeling the sweet sting of separation. And in that very feeling, something beautiful stirs: the longing to remember we belong to each other.
So I’m showing up openly, sharing my own story, my own need. Maybe one of those women will become the friend who texts on a hard day. Maybe we’ll sit over tea between sessions and let silence be comfortable. Maybe friendship will arrive the way it often does in adulthood: slowly, quietly, built on consistency, vulnerability, and the courage to say, “I’m here.”
We were never meant to walk this path in perfect solitude. We need witnesses. We need mirrors that reflect not just our roles (mother, wife, healer) but the untamed soul beneath.
If these words stir something in you, if you feel that same quiet ache, know you are not alone in it. Needing connection is not weakness; it is the most human thing about us.
Perhaps, like me, you’re busy, a little guarded, unsure how to begin again. Or perhaps you’re surrounded by noise and still feel unseen. Either way, the longing is valid. It is holy.
So I’ll say it gently: I miss having a friend.
And if you do too, maybe we begin by noticing it, by allowing it, by trusting that admitting it quietly is the first step toward something real.
That is where the meeting starts.
That is where the Light slips in
Leave a Reply