August 11: The People Who Love Me
August 11 — The People Who Love Me
Write about the people who have made you feel safe and what they've taught you about yourself.
I want to write about my childhood best friend. We met on the first day of 5th grade. We were both new students at the school, so we were sat next to each other and introduced. Instantly, that shared experience bonded us. I asked her that same day if she wanted to be best friends, and now, 21 years later, she still is.
There's something about someone who has met you before you were developed, before you started shaping the parts of you that would become permanent, that creates so much closeness.
She has always been my biggest supporter. Even as kids, she made me feel like the coolest person ever (I was not). She laughed at all my jokes, accompanied me through all the hard tasks, called me every day after school. We'd spend seven hours a day together at school, inseparable, and then call each other afterwards for HOURS, our conversations somehow never running out. In a time when there was zero stability in my home life, she was it. The person I could rely on. Our friendship was the one thing that never changed. Solid.
She also loved me unconditionally, a love I very much needed at the time. I remember one day we had an assignment that required us to write about our mothers. I'd lost mine almost a decade before that day, and I rarely got emotional about it, at least not publicly. But there was something about that assignment that really overwhelmed me. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. There was no visible sign of how overwhelmed I was; no one in that full classroom, not even the teacher, suspected anything was wrong with me. But she felt my pain. She knew exactly how I felt. She followed me to the bathroom, tears in her eyes before she even reached me. She comforted me and cried at the same time, as if the thought that I felt this pain ruined her. She felt my pain like it was hers. There are a lot of moments during that phase of my life where I felt so alone, until I talked to her. Until she shared the moment with me, shouldering all the weight of it with me.
We navigated the teen years together: the ugly phases, the hormonal changes, being bullied (by one girl), and more serious things too. Like where we would go to university, a decision that would shape our whole lives. We made it together, because it was important to us that whatever path we chose would not separate us. In university, we would try our hardest to take classes together. One time, in our attempt to beg the administration to enroll us in the same section, the admin employee looked up at us and said, "You need to be independent before you enter the workforce. Are you going to work together too?" We both replied in sync, instantly, "YES." Like, what is this man saying? Of course we were going to have the same job. After almost 10 years inseparable, how could we not be together at work too? I think he was seriously concerned about our level of immaturity. Of course, we went through far more grave heartbreaks than not getting into the same class at university. We met some shady people and experienced a lot of first-time situations together. We had lots of laughs and made memories we revisit to this day. Some of them make us laugh hysterically, as if they'd just happened, and some horrify us. I don't think anyone could understand our university experience except us and our group.
Plot twist: we didn't end up at the same job, although we tried. But that didn't put any distance between us. We navigated entering the workforce together, having managers for the first time, salaries, real adult friends, and actually starting our careers. We benefited from each other's experiences, and just like in 5th grade, we called each other daily at the slightest inconvenience, seeking each other's instant advice, or when we had good news or tea, or just to give each other the rundown of how the day went.
And then we entered a new chapter: marriage. She got married first, and although I wasn't married at the time and couldn't relate to her experience, we still confided in each other. She shared her experiences with me as a heads-up before I entered that phase: what to expect, what people don't tell you. She was looking out for me even then. And then I got married, and I cherished every single piece of advice she gave me. It was so helpful, and again it saved me in the moments I felt alone. If it weren't for her, so much of the newness of marriage might have felt isolating.
There are a million moments where I had no one but her.
Where I felt so misunderstood, but she saw me so clearly, clearer than I saw myself.
Where she talked me off the ledge.
Where I was so far away, and she grounded me.
Where I didn't believe in myself, but she did.
Where I felt so disgusting about myself, and she was kind to me.
And here we are, 21 years later, and the love, the familiarity, the closeness have never changed. It's not dictated by time or contact anymore; it's just a permanent closeness, regardless of how often we talk or see each other, or how far apart we are. The friendship we share and the love we have for each other have cemented into something permanent, etched into our hearts, a sisterhood even closer than blood. There is no one who knows me more, no one I can be my full authentic self with, no one who has loved me more sincerely than her.
That's my best friend.
