The ride of a lifetime

How different friendship looks (and feels) in different phases of life

Image courtesy of Helena Drouin via Dupe.

One of the first things they teach you about when you’re learning to drive is your mirrors. Before even turning on the car you’re taught to sit in the driver’s seat and check to see if your mirrors are adjusted properly. Growing up, I’d always seen the little sticker that said “objects in mirror are closer than they appear” and gave it little thought. As the driver, it’s purpose became much clearer. The mirrors present a warning of an important illusion. Now in my thirties, the sentiment still rings true in more ways than one.

The biggest thing I’ve noticed in my thirties thus far is distance. Not between cars necessarily, but between people. By the time we were thirty, many of my friends and I had bought houses in different parts of the Greater Seattle area. At first it was exciting to go over to each other’s places to get the grand tour or see what kind of house projects we were working on, but since then the novelty seems to have worn off. We’ve all settled into our routines, our individual lives, the general monotony that comes with adulthood slowing us down.

Aside from my husband, there is really only one other person I talk to every day. She’s my best friend from college who lived in my dorm freshman year and now lives in San Francisco. We’re naturally communicative people, so it’s no real surprise that we talk so much. Plus, we’re essentially each other’s sister given she’s an only child and I only have a brother. We both seemed to have found exactly what we needed in each other, which has brought us close over the course of our fourteen-year-and-counting friendship. Yes, it’s true our bond links us and keeps us in close contact, but lately I’ve been wondering if the physical distance does too. (After all, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder.) Because she lives a couple states away, our communication and our visits have to be more deliberate. We have to coordinate our calendars and plan in advance when to see each other. It’s funny because I have to do the same thing with my other friends, even the ones who live locally (we’re talking less than twenty-five minutes away), but I’m noticing it’s becoming less and less frequent.

The difference between the two – my long-distance friendship and my local friendships – seems to be intention. Because my friend lives out of state, I have to make a concentrated effort to see her and talk with her, and her with me. With others who live closer, there seems to be an illusion of proximity on both ends, almost like an inverted rearview mirror. We feel we’re close since we practically live in the same city, which gives us the impression that we can theoretically see each other whenever. Yet it hardly seems to happen anymore. It’s usually only when there’s a special occasion like a holiday or a birthday, or when someone invites everyone to something with weeks-ahead notice.

The people I end up seeing the most are the ones who live mere minutes from my house. But for the others, it’s like we’re so close, yet so far. Even twenty-five minutes somehow feels like a barrier, too large a chunk to squeeze into the calendar. It makes me wonder if growing older really means growing apart. The thought makes me sad because only a couple of my friends have babies or one on the way so far. What’s going to happen if and when we all have kids? What will happen if some do and some don’t? I wrote recently about how I’m on the fence about becoming a parent. The main reason being the fact that I’m terrified, but I’m terrified no matter which way you cut it. I’m scared to do it and lose contact with myself, my dreams, and other people. If I’m already having to schedule when to see my friends, how easy will that be when there’s a child in the mix? They say raising children takes a village, but what if that village operates on a tight timetable? How can we create community within a crowded calendar? On the other hand, if I don’t have kids but all my friends do, what then? We already hardly see each other. The chances feel halved (at the least) at that point.

All these fears are rooted in the fact that I feel like I’m already losing touch with people I used to feel close to. I’m grieving the friendships we used to have, the ones that flowed easily with an air of spontaneity, and resent having to put something on the calendar despite living mere miles apart. It feels like it puts pressure on the time we do spend together. It’s somehow too much to schedule yet too little when it actually happens. After so many months without seeing each other, most of the time is spent catching up, keeping us stuck on the surface like those spindly water bugs that flit around and don’t actually go anywhere. Because our thirties comes with more responsibilities, there is generally less free time as a result. And because time is such a precious resource, it’s hard for me to want to spend it on the surface. If I have to exert the energy to schedule something (and assuming I still have the energy to do said something by the time the day finally rolls around), I want to go deep and talk about the real stuff. I don’t want to catch up, I want to connect.

In my twenties, it was easy to stay in touch and never feel “behind” in a friendship. Between college and working in a corporate office, I was always surrounded by my people and we always lived in close proximity to each other. My social calendar and friendship cup was always full. It was easy. It was accessible. It was all I needed for that phase of life. But things changed around my late twenties, early thirties. A sort of social diaspora occurred, sending everyone in different directions. If friendship were a funnel, it’s now narrowing. At twenty, I sat happily at the surface with dozens of people. Now, I’m several levels lower, surrounded by fewer. And though those friendships are deeper because we can match each other’s depth, it’s hard knowing the others aren’t there.

I find myself holding onto the sentiment of the rearview mirror, the hope that these friends are actually closer than they appear and won’t just fade into the distance. The way I see it, it all comes down to intention. If the intention is there, it can close any gap. I’ve experienced it, it’s how my friend and I have managed to stay so close despite living in separate cities for years. Intention breeds connection. Going the extra mile paves the way for going deeper. I’m also learning that not everyone has the capacity for that, and therefore isn’t going to be close – physically or emotionally – at this age, and maybe that’s ok. Maybe that’s just natural, an organic effort toward energy conservation. And maybe it’s not distance, maybe it’s space, breathing room.

Looking in my rearview now at thirty-two, I see how different things are than how they used to be even just a few years ago. That difference – that distance – makes me sad. I miss living closer – feeling closer – to all of my friends. I’m grieving what used to be, who we used to be. But maybe it’s not about looking back. Maybe it’s about focusing on the road ahead, staying intentional, and trusting that who you’re meant to travel with will stay along for the ride.

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