I was in grade school when I realized I didn’t make friends easily with my peers. Now, depending on who you ask, it was because I didn’t play well with others at all. (There is some truth to this…there may have been some biting.) Looking back, though, it’s because I didn’t relate to them. I knew the jukebox swing of Beans and Cornbread (on cassette y’all) long before I cared about having an iPod. I was an “old soul” then. Now? I have an old(ish) body to match, and so does the company I keep. Today, probably a third of my truly close friends are on Social Security, and I have been invited to Pokeno game night with the biddies on my block. (You have to bring quarters to play, and it’s like Bingo? 🤷🏾‍♀️) In all seriousness, these are wonderful women who embraced me as a friend, even as a daughter when I moved into our house. 

They say good friends are hard to find, but they can be just as hard to keep, especially with age seasoning. We grow, they grow–and sometimes they don’t. We stay, they go–and sometimes they need to go. Change, regardless of who changes and why, is inevitable. How you get there is on your terms.

A circle, not a cage

I’m a few months into writing this newsletter, and I’ve started to reflect more on the (hopefully) decades ahead. More aches and pains. Learning the hard way for the 10,743rd time. Making friends. Losing friends. Finding—and keeping—my people, building my tribe, and cherishing the family who are kin but not blood is a nuanced dance with age. I’m changing as they’re changing and the amount of baggage we carry and its complexity increases as we live more life. 

I can name a best friend I’ve made in nearly all the important seasons of my life. Some of those friendships have faded with time, as new jobs in new cities and new mates and kids came into the picture. Others have stayed strong even with distance. One of my very best friends has lived an ocean away for 15 years of our friendship. We have been the first to know about each other’s biggest secrets and life changes—on a video call, in a chat message or cherished IRL bear hug. We’ve seen each other only a handful of times since they left the States. But, every time we pick up where we left off as if no time had passed.

I’ve tearfully had to let go of friendships that didn’t fit who I was anymore or the person I was trying to become. Nipsey was right: “If you look at the people in your circle and you don't get inspired, then you don't have a circle. You have a cage.” 

* * *

We settled where we live in L.A. more for me than my husband. I wanted our kids to have a sense of belonging and community, where they could see themselves reflected back in neighbors and friends. Selfishly, I wanted them to experience a slice of the childhood I was fortunate enough to have with family, blood and not, at every turn. 

Having a village is increasingly important to me as we want to grow our family. I know that trying to guess what to expect when you’re expecting is a fool’s errand. I crave advice and stories rooted in lived experiences…and lived mistakes. Finding my people has been a godsend in a love ‘em and leave ‘em “let’s do lunch” city like L.A. Finding a chosen family, even an adoptive Mama, has meant feeling understood. Being seen is everything. Being heard without having to explain who I am is everything else.  

Navigating predominantly white spaces, from private school to rooms of AI tech bruhs, has challenged my ability to make friends as an adult—but probably not for the reasons you think. As a Black person, a Black woman in the world today, life is a relentless barrage of codeswitching: “Hello, how are you?” “What’s good, fam?” “Are you kidding?” “Chile…” Being wary of how I speak, dress, eat, carry myself and in front of whom is exhausting. With all the shutting off, sometimes I forget to reboot. I dim my shine or turn down for the comfort of the melanin-challenged masses. The friends I want in my orbit are the ones who don’t hide behind a coded “You’re too much!” 

The friends I treasure most now, the ones I fight to keep no matter what my zip code is, the ones I will text randomly so we don’t slip into becoming strangers…those are the people I can turn all the way up for. They know what they’re in for, and stick around anyway.

If I came with a warning label, what would it say? “Proceed with caution. Razor-sharp wit and biting humor may cause injury. Not suitable for people who act like children under 12. Do not bleach. Handle with care, or you will suffer the consequences.”

The friend I made, and lost, in Kisubi

I remember when we got a desktop computer. Windows 95 was a gateway into a space where I could literally find anything. This was a stark contrast to watching my mom grind out law school assignments on an electric typewriter. 

There’s a whole Luddite movement now, mostly Gen Z, trading smartphones for in-person connection. There’s even a NYC festival built around asking strangers questions face to face instead of Googling them. I get the impulse. But connection is hard, and we can’t “tech” our way out of the tech problem we created. 

Making friends requires putting yourself out there and risking rejection. It’s work. But sometimes the friend you never saw coming finds you. In 2011, I made my first solo international trip to Uganda. I stayed in the guest house of a convent. I didn’t speak the local language and I came down with malaria. I wrote this reflection while bedridden and in isolation.

* * *

My friend died yesterday. I am more melancholy than one might expect considering we only met two weeks ago. And that my friend was a cat.

On my first day in Kisubi (kiss-sue-bee)—a stone’s throw from the vast glittering expanse of Lake Victoria—I was startled by a rustling near the stove. As primitive as some cooking methods might be here, I knew full well that food is cooked to completion. Dinner was not trying to escape being roasted any more than I was trying to escape dish duty. From the dishpan, I spied a thin tail swishing to and fro in the sunlight. Attached to the tail was a small gray kitten, looking at me as if to say, ‘I have been here all the time. It is your own fault for not noticing me sooner. I make no apologies, miss.’ Lounging on the cooktop in the mid-morning sun was Chalite (chal-lee-tay). 

We made proper acquaintances later that day. As I made my first failed attempts at peeling green bananas for the evening meal, Chalite looked me over. From my perch, armed with a steel blade and the resolve to be a decent Ugandan sous chef, he inspected me from head to toe. He purred as if to say he approved of me as the newest helpmate, despite my ineptitudes. 

The only two-legged female working in the kitchen sans habit, Chalite took to me as I grew fonder of him. So far from home, he became my solace as I missed my own bed, my own language and my own culture. I loved him because he was the only other thing living at the convent that didn’t speak the native tongue. 

Chalite learned that I would play if engaged. As I leaned down to stroke between his pale eyes, he would squint and purr with satisfaction. He would respond by circling my thonged feet and rubbing his soft face against my feet. After several passes, he deemed it acceptable to nibble at my toes. Despite being gnawed on, I generally didn’t mind.

Our friendship deepened as the days passed. I was sad to discover he spent his final days with fever and in discomfort. Considering his diet, as I observed it, consisted of fried sweet potato debris, bits of raw fish and meat, watermelon chunks and cockroaches, I can imagine the gastrointestinal anguish which must have plagued my companion in his final hours. I am sorry to have seen him go. He lies buried in a garden behind the kitchen building, posed as if he is catching one of his many sun-drenched naps. Despite his godly surroundings, I cannot count on a Lazarean miracle. I can only take comfort in the fact that he was here and that I knew him. 

A U.S. Surgeon General’s warning is reserved for significant public health risks. Over time, they’ve evolved more from harmful products, like cigarettes and alcohol, to social behaviors including social media usage. A 2023 advisory on America’s “epidemic of loneliness and isolation” detailed how social connection impacts the health and well-being of individuals and communities. We may not always like other people, but they keep us healthier.

Lacking social connection is more dangerous than:

A reader sent a voice note answering a question we all likely struggle with. How do you keep your people when life is full? Click above and listen to the full 2 minutes.

We recently hosted our first Nobody Told Me This event in collaboration with the Get Free Guide. Our virtual roundtable about menopause and perimenopause featured a discussion with me and my older sister. She broke out her church lady fan at one point. We could hear the whoosh as she fanned herself. My flimsy cardboard fan pales in comparison. 

I discovered a Black woman-owned business that makes beautiful handcrafted fans in the Ghanaian tradition. African Fabs by Jane offers handheld fans  in a variety of Ankara prints. They ship worldwide in a few days. Prices are in euros, but transactions can be processed in USD.