Friendship in adulthood is a strange, beautiful, and often bittersweet thing. When we’re young, we imagine that the closeness we feel to the people around us will always be that easy. Friendships happen effortlessly when your life is structured around shared spaces—school hallways, after-school jobs, dorm rooms, first apartments where walls are thin and boundaries are few. We’re living side by side, available at a moment’s notice, always with the time and energy to sit and process life over coffee, or drinks, or sprawled on the floor of someone’s room talking about everything and nothing at all.

But life in adulthood doesn’t unfold like that. Time, distance, and responsibility become barriers that can’t be ignored. Everyone is busy, tired, pulled in a dozen directions at once—by careers, by partners, by children, by personal crises, by health issues, by the sheer exhaustion of trying to keep your head above water in a world that demands so much from us. Sometimes months pass before you even realize you’ve lost touch with someone who used to be a daily presence in your life. It’s not intentional, it’s just… life.

And yet, some friendships survive this transition. Some friendships, if you’re lucky enough, stretch across time and space, across years of growth and change, without losing their pulse. The texture of them changes—it has to. We trade the endless hangouts and spontaneous nights for scheduled FaceTime calls, for voice memos sent in between meetings, for texts that say “just thinking about you,” because even though the time is scarce, the love is still there. It always was.

What I’ve learned is that adult friendship is about grace. It’s about understanding that just because someone isn’t always present doesn’t mean they’ve stopped loving you. It’s about holding space for the ebbs and flows of each other’s lives without keeping score. It’s about trusting that when the big stuff happens—when the world falls apart, when grief shows up, when joy arrives unexpectedly—the real ones will find their way to you. They will show up, even if it’s been a while.

I think part of me clung so tightly to my friendships because growing up, I didn’t see it modeled. My parents didn’t have close friendships in adulthood. I didn’t grow up with the house where friends were coming and going, or the dinner parties with lifelong companions. They had acquaintances, sure, but no real pillars. And as I got older, I started to wonder—was that just what adulthood looked like? Did you simply… grow up and grow apart from everyone? Was that loneliness inevitable? Or was there something broken in them that made it hard to sustain those connections? It worried me. It made me quietly promise myself that I would fight for my friendships, that I wouldn’t let them wither the way I watched happen around me. That I would not let life and its weight sever me from the people who made me feel most alive.

And then there are the rare ones. The once-in-a-lifetime friendships—the ones that feel like they were scripted long before we ever met. They root themselves so deeply inside of you that even if years passed, even if entire lifetimes stretched between you, that connection would still be there, intact. Those friends are the ones who have seen the most versions of you—the reckless one, the heartbroken one, the ambitious one, the lost one, the thriving one—and they’ve loved you through every single phase. They don’t just know your story—they’ve lived it alongside you.

I have been blessed to have those kinds of friendships. The people who showed up when I didn’t even know how to ask for help. Who reminded me that no matter where I went or what I did, I was never truly alone. I think about the moments they stepped in without being asked—the times I was too heartbroken to stand, and they held me up. The times I was broke, and they helped me pay my bills or cover my drinks. The nights they answered my calls when all I could do was cry on the other end of the line. The time I impulsively packed up my life and moved, and even if they didn’t agree, they helped me pack anyway. There was no judgment, just presence. Just love.

I also think about the natural seasons that friendships go through—the inevitable drifting apart that happens when life gets in the way. Some of us have needed space, time, even distance to grow into ourselves. There were times where we didn’t speak for months, maybe even years, not out of anger but out of necessity. We needed to evolve separately. And yet, somehow, we’ve always found our way back to each other. Like magnets pulled by some invisible force, knowing that no matter how far we wander, the thread is still there, still strong.

This kind of friendship is rare. And it’s not something I take lightly. It’s taught me that family isn’t always blood. Sometimes it’s the people who choose you over and over again, even when you’re at your worst. Even when you’ve been absent. Even when you’ve changed. They still see you. They still know you.

In adulthood, these friendships become lifelines. They hold your history. They remind you of who you were, who you are, and who you’re still becoming. They are your mirrors and your witnesses. Without them, the journey feels lonelier, less anchored.

To my people—thank you. Thank you for the grace you’ve extended to me, for the patience you’ve shown in the seasons I withdrew, for the love that never once wavered even when I didn’t have the language to ask for it. Thank you for seeing me—not just the polished parts, but the fractured, messy, tangled parts of me too. Thank you for holding space when I couldn’t find my way to clarity. Thank you for showing up, again and again, when I didn’t have the strength to ask anyone to.

Thank you, Audrey—for being the twin flame to my soul in friendship. For understanding me in a way that sometimes feels psychic, for knowing the spaces in me that I can’t always explain. For every laugh we’ve shared, for every tear we’ve shed together, for every late-night conversation where the world felt dark and you brought the light back in. You’ve been my home in human form, a constant reminder that I’m never truly alone.

Thank you, Kelly—you are my family by blood, but even more by bond. My cousin, my little sister in every way that counts, tethered to me since the day you were born. Thank you for protecting me in ways I didn’t know I needed, for standing up for me when I couldn’t find my own voice, for your loyalty that has been as fierce as it is quiet. Thank you for always reflecting me back to myself when I started to disappear.

Thank you, Matty—for your presence that feels like an anchor, for your steadiness when everything in me wanted to run, for your wit that cuts through the noise, and for your ability to call me on my bullshit with love. You’ve held me accountable when I was spiraling, reminded me to keep going when I was ready to give up, and stood by me with a loyalty that doesn’t ask for credit.

Thank you, Lauren—for your humor, for your timing, for calling me every single week after I moved away because you could hear how lost I was. For making space to “shoot the shit” and talk about nothing at all, just so I didn’t feel so far away from everything. You made life feel lighter, funnier, more survivable in the moments it felt crushing.

Thank you, Jess the Commander—for being my ride-or-die, my no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is friend who I always knew I could call. Thank you for your wisdom, your strength, your refusal to sugarcoat. For dropping everything to move me out when I was too overwhelmed to ask anyone else. Your presence has always been a shield, and your loyalty has been loud in the best way.

Thank you, Jess—for your kindness that runs deep, for your thoughtfulness, for your gentle but unyielding heart. For the laughter that filled our early twenties, for the countless memories burned into the fabric of who I am. But more than that—thank you for holding the mirror up when I was ruining our friendship. For having the courage to tell me the hard truth when I couldn’t see it myself. That mirror changed me. It sent me back to therapy, back to myself, and I’ll never forget that.

Thank you, Sara—for your light, your empathy, your softness. For the high school years that built our foundation, for the years of distance and reconnection, for every time we found our way back to each other. You’ve taught me that real friendships can stretch and break and still find their way home.

And to my newest addition, Jake—thank you for proving to me that even in adulthood, even when you think your circle is already set, life can still surprise you. That new friendships can still emerge, deep and fast and real. You’ve reminded me that the universe is still generous, that people still arrive exactly when you need them—even if you didn’t know you needed more.

I carry each of you with me, in the way I speak, the way I love, the way I survive. You are the scaffolding that’s held me up through every rebuild. You are my constants in a world that never stops spinning, never stops shifting. I only hope I’ve been able to offer you even a fraction of the love, the grace, the loyalty, the belonging that you’ve given me.