Monday Motivation July 7

Friendship is a funny thing. We’re told in youth that the more friends we have, the better. But life has a way of stripping away the extras and revealing the real ones. And honestly? I’m okay with that.

I have a small circle now. Even smaller since losing Dakota and my Dad. Some people fell away quietly. Some disappeared with the noise. For a while, that felt like another loss stacked on top of all the others—but over time, I’ve come to understand something: every person who entered my life had a reason, and so did every person who left. 

That’s part of their growth and mine. And I wouldn’t be who I am today without them.

Each friendship, no matter how long it lasted, brought a lesson—some beautiful, some brutal, some laugh-out-loud ridiculous. But all of them mattered. If I look back at the friendships I’ve lost, I can trace the lessons they left behind like breadcrumbs, and honestly? I’m grateful. Grateful for the part they played in the shaping of who I am now.

And then… there are the unexpected ones.The friendships that blossom from the most unlikely soil.

My very best friend and I? We hated each other at first. Like, actual, true loathing. (Yes, I know we’re not supposed to hate—but let’s be real.) She used to date my brother. After they split, he lied to both of us about each other, feeding the fire of a resentment that lasted over fifteen years. FIFTEEN. YEARS.

But fate, or maybe some cosmic sense of humor, put us in the same place at the same time for a birthday party. It started with the usual polite small talk… and a few drinks later, we were face to face with the truth:

1. We had been lied to.

2. We had a lot in common.

3. We were always meant to be friends.

Now? Now she’s my person. My ride or die. My go-to for anything and everything. I can’t even remember how I lived without her.

When my dad had his stroke, she drove over an hour to be with me. She sat with me for hours. Then the next day, when I lost Dakota—someone called her (I don’t remember who)—she rushed back to town. She ran into my house, up the stairs to his room where I was, and held onto me as I broke. Then she went to the hospital and sat with my dad, so he wouldn’t be alone either.

That’s friendship. That’s her.

We’ve been through so much—ups, downs, chaos, grief, and healing. And yes, we still sometimes mention the years we lost because of my brother’s lies. We don’t dwell, but we don’t exactly forgive him either.

We can go weeks or even months without talking (because, life), and then pick up the phone and talk for hours like nothing ever paused. She’s the friend I know I’ll have forever.

This isn’t to diminish my other friendships.The ones who saw the mess and didn’t walk away. The ones who understood when I went quiet and gave me the space I needed without taking it personally.The ones who didn’t run from my grief or shame me for crawling inward.

There are only a few of them—and that’s okay. At this age, I’ve learned that I don’t need dozens of friends to feel fulfilled. I just need the right ones. The people who don’t demand constant presence to maintain connection. The ones who hug you after months apart and remind you—just by being there—that they still are.