Friends are Friends Forever

 May

Not the month. Just my reflective thoughts at three in the morning.

During this season of my life, I found myself saying, “I can’t do one more thing.” Not out loud necessarily, but in my head. Sometimes several times a day.

I didn’t think I could do one more Monday. I didn’t think I could set that alarm one more time, get dressed, put on a smile, and head off to work pretending that everything was perfectly fine. But then Monday came and somehow I did. I got up, got ready, grabbed my coffee, and headed out the door because people were counting on me and life didn’t really care if I was tired.

I didn’t think I could spend one more day worrying about the people I loved.

My daughter had surgery on her feet. It was outpatient surgery and everyone assured me it would be fine, but if you’re a wife or a mother, you know those words don’t always quiet the thoughts in your head. You still worry. You still wonder. You still imagine every possible outcome and then try to convince yourself to stop doing exactly that. It creates its own list of worries and carries them around anyway.

My husband had health issues. If you’ve ever sat in an emergency room with someone you love, you know it changes you. There was a feeling that settled in my chest that never completely went away. I told myself I couldn’t do this again. I couldn’t sit in another waiting room wondering what happened next. I couldn’t hear one more doctor explain one more test. I couldn’t relive the worst day of my life one more time. But then I drove him there.

I sat with him until he was comfortable and in his own room and finally able to relax. Then I came home and tried very hard not to revisit every memory that lived permanently in the corners of my mind. The thing about trauma was that it didn’t really leave. Most days it sat quietly in the background. Other days it walked right into the room and pulled up a chair.

I found myself carrying concerns for everyone I loved like they were extra items in my purse. Some days they felt heavier than others.

I didn’t think I could handle one more crisis in our house. Our home was over thirty years old, and some days it felt like every part of it had decided to age at exactly the same time. The air conditioner, the appliances—something was always plotting against the bank account. I found myself wondering if houses were supposed to last longer than this or if they all eventually became expensive toddlers that constantly needed attention.

And yet, when something broke, we called the repair company. We wrote the check. We figured it out. Because what else was I going to do?

Some days I felt like everyone’s safe place to unload their burdens, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had one of my own. People told me their worries. Their fears. Their frustrations. Their disappointments. Their secrets. Somehow I had become the person people came to when they needed someone to listen. And I did listen. I genuinely cared. I wanted people to feel heard. I wanted them to know somebody understood.

I had spent years being the keeper of stories. Some were heartbreaking. Some were complicated. Some were things that had been shared in confidence for decades. I carried them carefully because they mattered to the people who entrusted them to me.

But sometimes I wondered what it would feel like to set down my own burdens for a little while. Sometimes I wished someone would look at me and say, “Okay, now it’s your turn.” Not to fix it. Not to explain it away. Not to tell me why I shouldn’t feel that way or why I needed to look on the bright side. Just listen.

Just let me say what was on my mind. Let me talk about what hurt, what worried me, what made me happy, what made me afraid. Let me say the thing out loud without immediately being handed a solution, a comparison, or a reminder that someone else had it worse.

Let me tell you about the thing that woke me up at three in the morning. Let me share the thought I had been carrying around for weeks. Let me celebrate the good things without feeling silly and talk about the hard things without feeling guilty.

Sometimes I didn’t need advice.

Sometimes I didn’t need answers.

Sometimes I just needed room.

And maybe what I needed most was the same thing I tried to give everyone else—to feel heard.

One of the harder things during that season was realizing that some people I’d known most of my life sometimes felt like strangers. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was life experience. Maybe it was that we all became different versions of ourselves as the years went by.

The truth was, most days I felt like I was holding together a dozen different responsibilities with duct tape and determination.

And yet every morning I got up and did it again.

Maybe that’s what being an adult really is. Not having endless strength or unlimited patience. It is looking at the next thing in front of you and thinking, “I absolutely cannot do one more thing,” and then somehow finding a way to do exactly that.

I didn’t have a profound ending for any of it. Life didn’t suddenly become easier. The worries didn’t disappear. Things still broke. People still disappointed me. Anxiety still whispered lies. Mondays still arrived with remarkable consistency.

But there was something comforting in realizing that most of us were carrying more than anyone knew. Most of us were tired. Most of us were worried. Most of us were doing the best we could with what we’d been given.

And somehow, despite all of it, we kept showing up.

Maybe that was enough.