Monday’s weather was immaculate. 60 degrees and sunny. When my workday ended, I opened the front door and started doodling. Lost… Angeles. Just as I finished, my neighbor Shayna walked up the steps to her entryway. I opened the screen door that separated us to greet her.

 

She was returning home from her job as a 9th grade English teacher and women’s basketball coach. To her students she’s Miss V. To her athletes, Coach Shayna. I asked about her day. “It was Docs vs. Crocs spirit day,” she explained, showing off her sparkly platform Doc Marten boots. I admired her choice. She made a proposal. “Should we sit outside while the sun’s still out?”

“Oh, out back?” I pictured in my mind the crusty, cobwebbed patio chairs we’ve sat in only twice or thrice before. “Let’s do it.”

 

Five minutes later we were outside with a pair of Black Cherry Trulys and her two dogs, Roscoe and Heidi Bean. I munched on crackers. Her, on Flaming Hot Cheetos. For the next half-hour, we caught up on our weekends. Our families. Our shared history of dating horror stories. Our pain.

 

I heard once that if you ask God for patience, he doesn’t give you patience — he gives you traffic. God gave me Shayna last July, at a time when I wished more than anything to be a better friend.

 

Friendship has long been a touchy subject for me. As a recovering perfectionist, I half-consciously hold myself to unrealistic standards in everything that I do. Especially the things I love most. Friendship can be scary. Burdensome. At its worst, a series of expectations that I place on myself — always wanting to meet them but often falling short. Shit, I’m 10 minutes late. They’re going to think I’m a lazy friend. Over time, I reinforce the idea that a friend is not someone I can be myself with, but instead someone I must perform for. Someone I’m indebted to.

 

Until recently, I’ve not allowed myself to show up imperfectly and face the possibility of being known for who I truly am. I hadn’t yet, of course, been open to receiving that kind of grace.

 

Two years ago, I asked my friend Meg if she’d be upset if I didn’t attend her Brooklyn wedding. I was in the middle of a 10-day road trip across the country, moving from New York to LA. I was emotionally spent and didn’t know if I had it in me to turn around and go right back. It was a terrifying thing to ask. Went against almost everything I believed in. I wasn’t sure what kind of response I was hoping for. Perhaps a “You’ll be missed, but I understand.” Instead I got a “Yes, I would absolutely be upset if you didn’t come. You mean a lot to me and Dan, and we both want to have you there. It hurts that you would even ask.”

 

Her answer took me by surprise. I knew she cared for me as a friend, but I didn’t think she cared that much. Naturally, I showed up to the wedding with my tail between my legs, feeling ashamed that I had even asked. Meg welcomed me with open arms, genuinely happy to have me there. As I relaxed I was able to realize just how happy I was to be there, too. Something in me began to crack. Ah, the transformative touch of grace.

 

The wedding was fantastic. The reception even better. The whole night we danced like our lives depended on it. Having moved away two weeks prior, my heart was raw, open, feeling everything. I took in what it felt like to experience belonging in a crowded room. Surrounded by my friends, my community. People I’d taken for granted. People who I loved and who loved me back.

 

When it was time to leave, Meg’s husband Dan hugged me and told me how glad he was that I was there. That he and Meg were crushed at the possibility of my absence. He recounted their conversation. ‘This whole thing just wouldn’t be the same without Brett — he has to come!’

 

“We love you!” he reiterated, his hand on my shoulder.

 

And with that, the dam had broken.

Grace touched me to my core.

 

I immediately started crying. “I love you too, Dan.” My voice broke before I could even finish the sentence. I had to walk away before the bottom fell out. When I got home, I sobbed and explained the whole experience to my friends DZ and Mateo. I described how much joy and healing I’d felt unexpectedly. How I didn’t realize just how loved I am by my friends and just how much I love them in return.

 

On Sunday, Connor and I attended an Oscars viewing party. It was a small group of us, most of whom met while attending a writing workshop last October. It’s fun hanging out with writers, I’ve learned. They’re not afraid to go deep. Leah toured us around her home. Esther dove into the details of her journey into deconstruction. Bernice opened up about her experience losing her father just one month ago. It was an evening I’ll cherish forever.

 

Halfway through the night, Esther, in passing, described me as her friend. Friend, I thought. I let it sink in. It’s a title I would’ve rejected even a few months ago. But as the idea made a home within the walls of my insides, I experienced a feeling that I would describe as nothing other than agreement. Friend, I thought. I am her friend — and glad to be it, too.

 

We shared stories, opinions, and snacks, speaking openly and imperfectly. A group of new friends. Each granting ourselves and each other permission to be exactly as we are. And just as I wished, I got to experience, a little more through practice, that friendship is not actually a burden, but in fact the most welcome, most cherished of gifts.

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A few things I’m thankful for:

- Movie night at my house :)

- Visits to LA from Meg hehe

- Sweet, sweet peace of mind

 

 

Pop culture things I’m thinking about:

- Interstellar (whoa)

- This interview and this interview gives great context to Eternal Sunshine by Ariana Grande (I think it’s a beautifully elevated body of work tbh)

 

 

A random journal entry:

8.5.20

I love new seasons, they always come when you need them

 

 

A random thought:

My definition of faith: trust without evidence

 

 

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Thanks for reading :) Talk again soon.