I can’t hold it in right now. It’s a feeling that’s been pressing against my chest, bursting at the seams, demanding to be felt and said out loud. My gratitude is running deep—layered with crowns and gold, with “you can do it” Rosie-the-Riveter bandanas, with that undeniable, badass, womanly spirit that refuses to stay quiet.
I am overwhelmingly grateful for girlfriends.
Truthfully, I didn’t really get it until my 30s—until life stopped flirting with difficulty and started delivering the real stuff. The critical stuff. Lifetime-level heartbreaks. Pregnancies. Cancer diagnoses. Divorces. Career shifts. Health scares. Death. The moments that don’t just test you, but alter the trajectory of your entire life. Not in a vague “you’ll understand someday” way—but in the wildly obvious, gut-wrenching, right-now kind of way.
I feel such deep gratitude for discovering sisterhood in my 30s—both the new friendships I’ve formed and the ones that have grown alongside me into this chapter. It’s different now. Deeper. Truer. It feels like we’re all doing life together, fighting to make sure life doesn’t completely do us. When I think about my closest girlfriends, I’m struck by how no two lives look the same. It’s like walking down a massive bookstore aisle filled with dozens of New York Times bestsellers—each story rich, complex, unputdownable. I’m not bored by a single one of their lives.
Tell me more.
Let’s brunch.
Catch me up.
The truth is, things happen so quickly at this age—and with such weight—that sometimes all you want to do is dig your nails into the steady and hold on for dear life. And it’s these friends—the ones who run up beside you and paint your nails while your grip is slipping; who wrap their arms around your body when change threatens to knock you flat; who sit beside you on the ground, slumped and silent, for as long as you need before they help you stand again. These are the friends who show up during the heart-crushing, soul-pivoting, kill-you-before-you’re-stronger seasons of life. These are the ones who matter.
These are the friends who long ago formed tribes. The village members who help raise your children. The humans who rebuild with what’s left—carefully, lovingly, in your honor—when everything you knew gets taken away.
These friends don’t just understand your pain—they breathe deeply and step directly into it with you. They don’t hesitate. They carry it alongside you. In your 30s, these are the friendships where you can’t go long without saying “I love you,” because the truth is, you genuinely might not know how to live without them.
And when life evolves as dramatically as it does in this decade, you eventually find yourself surrendering—arms stretched wide. Then whoosh. Suddenly you’re spinning like a tornado. Sometimes, in the chaos, your arms flail and you accidentally knock someone over. And sometimes that someone is one of these friends. Some of the hardest conversations I’ve had in my 30s have been the deeply vulnerable ones—the ones where a friendship feels momentarily in peril. But I’ve also noticed something else: these are the conversations where it’s easiest to admit I was wrong. To tell the truth. To say I’m sorry. To cry. To ask for forgiveness. Because queens, I’m speaking directly to you now—I truly don’t think I can do this life without you. My ego doesn’t stand a chance against this kind of love.
So hold onto the ones who say yes to midnight, Richter-scale-10 anxiety phone calls. The ones who keep asking how you really feel about that one thing, even though they’ve heard the story a thousand times. The ones who celebrate your wins like they’re their own. The ones who say, “Tell me the truth,” and when you do, they hate it and love you more. The ones who say, “Wear a pink wig for my birthday,” and you respond, “I hate wigs—but I’ll buy extras in case anyone forgets.”
To my girlfriends—all of you. The ones I talk to every day. The ones I talk to every month. And even, especially, the ones whose conversations consist solely of, “I love you and miss you so much, we need to hang out soon.” Because sometimes, just knowing you’re there is enough. I freaking love you. I don’t know how else to express the intensity of this feeling.
I just freaking love you.
Every part of my soul that is fierce, feminine, bold, warrior-like, roaring, or quietly weeping—every ounce of it—is really just you. Your permission. Your love. Your unwavering, beautiful sisterhood.
Thank you. I’m sorry it took me so long to arrive in a world where you are my heroes. But I’m here now. And you are all wearing capes made of thousand-thread-count gold. I’ve never felt prouder to look up at a sky lit with constant bat signals—signals that appear and disappear in an instant. We swoop in together like a hive of bees tending to their queens, and it is the most breathtaking masterpiece of life I’ve ever been a part of.
I love you. You are my deepest gratitude. I cannot do this without you. And I hope—deeply—that you feel the same.
