I don’t have a best friend

She invited me to sit at her lunch table on my first day at a new high school.

That’s the worst part about moving and starting over—lunch. You don’t know who’s “safe.” Where do the good kids sit? Not the cool ones, not the athletes, not the quiet, nerdy, or wildly outgoing ones. Just... the good ones. The kind who don’t draw attention for all the wrong reasons.

So I took a chance. (Because, what else could I do?)
And I followed her.

Her friends scooted over at an already-too-full table to make space for me. No big deal. No introductions. No pause in conversation. It just kept flowing like I’d always been there. And in time, her friends became our friends.

I hadn’t gone to preschool with them. I didn’t know their childhood pets’ names, their inside jokes, or the middle school drama that still shaped their group dynamic.

And at 15, 16, 17—that felt like it mattered. A LOT. It felt like I’d never have a best friend—someone who knew me from the beginning. Someone who could read my mind from across a room and laugh before I even said a word.

Fast forward 23-ish years: I was right.
I don’t have a best friend.

I have a tribe of them.

And if I called any one of them at 3 a.m., they’d answer. They’d drive. They’d show up and do the thing—whatever the thing was.
[Okay, fine—two of them would answer. Two would have their phones on silent. And one would see the call, panic, wait for the second call to make sure it was serious, and then answer. You know who you are.]

I spent an hour on the phone with them tonight—a group call sparked by urgency. Secrets were shared. Hard things were spoken aloud. And the beautiful part? Every single time one of us says something we’re sure will be too much this time… it never is. It always ends in, “Oh, that’s it?” No judgment. Just relief.

We can handle the thing.
Because we always have.

Middle school drama ain’t got nothin’ on us.

I still don’t know the inside jokes.
But I do know their deepest, darkest secrets.
And they know mine.

Because at 15, your worst version of yourself hasn’t even been born yet. You don’t know what choices you’ll make or hardships you’ll face, what regret might follow, what pain you’ll carry. You haven’t yet buried your heaviest burdens, or rebuilt yourself again after losing everything.

The divorces.
The fight-for-your-marriage seasons.
The pregnancy losses. The births. Adoptions.
The dysfunctional families.
The bank accounts that hit zero while the bills stack up.
The trauma that doesn’t stay buried.
The battles with cancer, Crohn’s, and chronic anxiety.
The debilitating exhaustion of motherhood.
The burnout and crushing pressures at work.
The quiet, lonely loss of yourself you’re sure no one will understand.

I hope you have a best friend—someone who gets you, carries you, and loves you through all of it.
And if you don’t, I hope you find a tribe of them. The kind that grows with you, walks through fire beside you, and makes space for every version of who you become.

Because in the end, it’s not about who’s known you the longest—
It’s about who never stops showing up.