The other day I sat at a table of late twenty-somethings and early 30-somethings, all of whom were either engaged to be married or had already exchanged rings for a promised future together. I was the only singleton present, and despite my criticisms against the institution of marriage, I was surprised when I felt a pang of grief in my chest looking around the room - but it wasn't for the reason you might suspect. The first time I felt this type of grief was when I was 12 - my best friend went away for a 3-week summer camp and came back with a boyfriend. He was a gangly, uncouth and undeserving creature who filled her mind and heart in a way that I soon realized my friendship couldn’t or wouldn’t - at least not any longer... And that hurt.
When I was 24, I woke up one morning to several gushing WhatsApps from another of my closest friends: Guess what? He proposed, and I said yes!
Social law dictates that I should have felt elated, but I mostly felt dread and loss. The beginning of their relationship had already spelt the beginning of the end for ours - we didn’t speak as much, our adventures together were fewer and farther apart and their intimacy consistently took precedence over ours. I was a bridesmaid at the wedding, but I couldn’t muster up much joy for their union, because it had stolen my friend away from me. I should’ve been glad that my friend had found a promise of lifelong love - someone who was committing to being there for her through sickness and in health. But… wasn’t that what I had been promising all along too? I just didn’t have a ring to show for it.
I’ve heard it said time and time again, in different ways, that friendships are “somehow” much easier than romantic relationships. I hypothesise that the people who think this either: aren’t as invested in their friendships or, perhaps more likely, deeply believe that romantic relationships are the pinnacle of intimacy and connection, and therefore place far more expectation on their romantic partner than they do their friends. Less expectation, less attachment, less triggers, less work… If this is how you navigate friendship, of course it will feel easier.
It’s understandable that this is the norm. Everything around us tells the story that romantic love will not only offer us the most relief to our instinctual need to belong, but that it is the peak achievement of one’s life. This is a great tragedy. The societal emphasis on a very specific type of heteronormative and monogamous relationship limits the possibility of experiencing genuine, profound, and wholehearted intimacy solely to the confines of our romantic partnerships. But how many of these do we get to experience in our lifetime?
Historically, I have also held my romantic partners to a far higher standard than I have my friends. When friends have cancelled plans last minute without warning, I let it slide. When they stopped messaging as frequently or consistently, despite my hurt, I said nothing. When they didn’t message about my grandmother passing, or failed to visit me when I was in hospital for a week, I was far more gracious and understanding than I would have been with a partner. This, under the pretense that “friendships are easy”. This, a failed opportunity to create deeper understanding, trust and connection.
I remember the first time I had a “proper” fight with a friend. I was in my final year of my degree, and I was sharing my energy between my studies, a local theatre where I had been invited to co-write and perform in a production, and several other projects. My friend, who, for two years prior, I had been seeing every day without fail, felt neglected and hurt by the lack of time and communication that I was offering. It was a difficult conversation. I was enlivened by all the newness in my life, and felt excited by the forward movement I was experiencing. Her anger and hurt made me feel angry too - could she not understand my need to put focus into these projects which meant so much to me? She felt rejected and discarded for these new pursuits, and like our friendship and closeness had meant nothing to me.
We argued and negotiated for 3 or so hours. What came from it was an understanding that big decisions and life movements which would alter the dynamic of our friendship are inevitable, but can be navigated with greater care. I agreed to remember that a shift in my life may well impact our intimacy and therefore warrants an open and loving discussion.
This is the type of care I am asking for in all of my relationships and I know it is no small ask. It means letting go of the fear of being too much and sharing when my friends have hurt me. It means listening when I have hurt them. It means acknowledging where I have work to do on myself and asking my friends to do the same. It means holding myself accountable to my words, actions and values, and asking for patience as I learn and grow. It means giving the grace of patience as they learn and grow too. It means moving through discomfort and the fear of being rejected in order to draw boundaries and maintain connection. It means listening and not getting defensive when being on the receiving end of boundaries being drawn. It means being triggered and extremely vulnerable.
This means letting my friends see all of me - parts that perhaps, I previously might have only reserved for my partner. This is hard work - to show up consistently with love, compassion and honesty. The reward, however, is a depth of connection that means my life is a warm and diverse palette of intimate and colourful relationships. When I cannot turn to my romantic partners for belonging, understanding and closeness (which inevitably happens), my life is still punctuated with a wide variety of partnership and love that fills and satisfies me.
This is not to say that one shouldn’t learn to sit with themselves or that we should avoid loneliness at all costs. This is a plea towards a deeper type of community which moves away from the limited views of love and intimacy which overshadow the true possibility of human connection. This is my way of saying, my friends, I promise to be here for you in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. I may not have a ring to give, but I am committed to honouring the place you hold in my life as someone who offers me a home in this sometimes devastating world.
I acknowledge that some relationships only bloom in our lives for a specific season, but while we are here, I promise to treat our friendship like the flowers in my garden. I will water it with attention, presence, and kindness. I will make sure it gets sunlight and help prune it where needs be. I will be the soil which nourishes and keeps us rooted, and I will be the wind which keeps us honest. What I ask in return is that this garden be a place of refuge for both of us, and that you are always willing to put on your gardening gloves and get your hands dirty with me.
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