Evolution Among Friends

Group hugs, group tears, and the power of friendship that transcends change

There were only two full days left of our vacation together, and I was getting antsy. Despite having an amazing time sharing meals, walking in the mountains, and having long heartfelt talks, there was still something I wanted to do. I had planned this thing. Back at home, alone in my nerd bubble, it had seemed like a good idea, but now, everything about it felt incredibly awkward.

I wanted my friends to join me for a formal ritual (what are we, witches?) to metabolize some of the grief of the last few years. To be each other’s witnesses for some of the hardest things any of us have ever faced. But it also meant I needed us all to have childcare coverage, leave our comfy AirBnB, and set aside time for a scripted activity about pain. On vacation.

I had pictured the ritual taking place after bedtime, but in reality, bedtimes were scattered, and late. So we scheduled it for first thing in the morning. I had pictured a secluded mountain lake or stream, where maybe we could skinny dip, and instead we had a small recreational pond surrounded by fishermen and porch-sitting neighbors. I had pictured our paper boats fading off into the horizon, but instead, the quick-dissolving paper meant they were consumed instantly upon contact with water. And yet, it was perfect. My friends are generous souls, and they made it happen.

Sagebrush in the Taos valley

For all my life, friendship has felt natural. I have always had girl friends. Not in massive numbers, but in small handfuls of deep, meaning-rich relationships. I am a good listener, I am the perfect accomplice, and I am up for almost anything.¹ I can also be codependent and phone-averse and outsource decision-making, but for the most part, it works. My friendships, when they stick, stick. And when they dissolve, it’s more of a fade-off-into-the-horizon thing. A gentle letting go.

Of course, like most everyone I know, I have learned that maintaining friendships in adulthood is not easy. And starting new ones is nigh-impossible. With friends around the globe, I have tried spontaneous outreach. I have tried scheduled calls. I have tried group video chats and text chains and social media. None have worked reliably well. When you are not forced across each other’s paths on a regular basis, it’s really, really hard to keep up, and to be there for each other in the right way, at the right time, with substance.

Enter motherhood. I was pretty much the last one of my friends to have a kid. I had seen it shift the relationships. I was determined that this wouldn’t be the case for me. I would keep calling, keep visiting, keep hosting. I wouldn’t retreat into a family bubble, but keep the doors wide open. My childless friends would keep me tethered to my former self, and my parent friends would commiserate about the challenges of childrearing. We could be each other’s “village,” and our kids would all be friends.

I was naive, and I was wrong. Not wrong that we would stay friends, but wrong to believe that it wouldn’t change. Motherhood changed everything, and friendship is one of the arenas of change that I’m still unpacking four years later. Yes, my daughter was born at the height of the pandemic—but having a newborn is inherently isolating in ways I never realized. Even before the child is born, the journey of getting pregnant and being pregnant—so profoundly different for each person—can be a lonely one.

Then birth…births are like snowflakes—no two are the same. And babies, too—how you feed, how you sleep, how much leave you take, whether your kids is healthy or struggling, happy or colicky, how they are developing, how much support you have, how much anxiety—it all varies, and the stakes feel so high. No matter how close you were before, these experiences with what is now the central focus of your life can drive wedges between even bosom friends.

In fact, I was surprised to find that in these first few tender years of my daughter’s life, the friendships that thrived the most were those with women who did not have babies—either no kids at all, or kids at an older stage. I couldn’t fathom why I felt competitive with the people I loved most in the world, but somehow I did. Something about the survivalism of it—or the unsteadiness of so many identities in flux—made it hard for us to hold space for one another.

Lately, though, I’ve felt that tension start to ease again. The unwanted tendency to compare has mostly evaporated. Perhaps because we’re better-slept, or we have just a teeny bit more time, the conversations we do have go a little deeper, get a little meatier. There will always be new barriers to relatability—around children, health, jobs, relationships, loss—but I am more determined than ever to push past these. I do not want to weather another transition on my own. Friendships somehow matter less than romantic love in this culture, yet they provide at least as much soul food, if you ask me. I need my friends.

When I found myself across the country last week, renting a big house alongside some of these soul-friends, with spouses and children in tow, I realized how unnatural friendship can feel at times. We were attempting to fit old shapes into new molds. So much intention was required for us to assemble at all. Deciding where to stay, factoring in travel and schedules and finances, planning activities. I have never exchanged so many texts about groceries in my life.

But once we were there, in the same space, doing life, it all fit. We chatted like old times. We cooked, and played music, and hiked. To our great delight, our kids bonded with each other over endless games of hide-and-seek, Dinosaur Escape, splashing in the not-so-hot hot tub, and bouncing on the bed. I learned that my child, like me, refuses to sing karaoke, but she will shamelessly dance her heart out to the music until every part of her is spent. Adaptation, you see. Evolution.

Horseback riding with friends and their kids

We stood out at the pond for my preciously awkward grief ritual, watching our paper boats melt to white mush and sink from the surface. After a minute or so, I read Mary Oliver’s “In Blackwater Woods,” choking through those last lines:

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

We came in for a group hug—held each other against our bones, knowing our lives depended on each other.

“What would feel good to release this?” I asked, “Dancing? Singing? Shouting? Running?”

“I could run,” someone said, and enough others nodded in consensus. We walked back over a rickety footbridge and then broke into a sprint. We were at elevation, so my lungs constricted almost immediately. By the time we reached the car, I was fully breathless. We pulled in for one more group squeeze.

“We have…to close…the container,” I panted, referencing the concept that grief is best addressed in limited containers of space, time, and company.

We took one giant breath together. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Con-spiring, once again, as friends.

Upcoming Events

Tend: Embodied Community for M/others

The next session of my circle for m/others at any age and stage of the journey is now open! New this round, our gatherings will be all online on Zoom, and registration is directly through me rather than the yoga studio.

Tend is a monthly group designed to examine common motherhood challenges and unleash the unique gifts this experience offers in the context of supportive community. Each gathering is a mix of gentle yoga, somatic exercises, reflective writing, and conversation.

This session will meet four times on second Thursdays from 7:30-9pm Eastern Time with recordings available for those who can’t attend live. Dates are:

• September 12, 2024

• October 10

• November 14

• December 12

If you are a paid subscriber to Toward Utter Aliveness, you are eligible for a 10% discount. Email or message me for the promotion code.

Please reach out with questions and share with a friend you think might be interested. What better way to evolve together?!

With light, life, and love,

Devon

1. except karaoke!