Wait, I'm the Adult?! Life, apparently, requires supervision.

September 12th, 2026

By Emergency Contact

I have spent a lot of my life making sure the people I love don’t feel alone.

I don’t remember deciding to become that person.

There wasn’t a meeting.

Nobody appointed me.

Nobody looked over my qualifications—which was probably wise—and said:

Yes. Her. She’s emotionally stable. Put her in charge.

Absolutely the fuck not.

And yet, somehow, here we are.

I’m the person who checks if you ate.

Who asks if you’ve had water.

Who notices when your texts sound different.

Who will research the thing, make the call, fill out the form, bring the food, hold the baby, sit on the floor, listen to the same story for the seventeenth time, or help you figure out what the fuck we’re doing next.

Sometimes I have solutions.

Sometimes I have snacks.

Sometimes I have righteous indignation and Wi-Fi.

Sometimes I don’t have a goddamn thing except a place for you to fall apart.

But you can fall apart here.

I think that’s always been important to me.

I want the people I love to know they don’t have to clean themselves up before they come through my door.

You don’t have to make your pain prettier.

You don’t have to wait until you’re rational.

You don’t have to figure out what you need before you call.

You don’t even have to know what’s wrong.

Come sit down.

We’ll figure it the fuck out.

Or we won’t.

Maybe we’ll just sit in the shit together.

That counts too.

For a long time, I thought that was what a village was.

The people you show up for.

And it is.

But I’ve learned something else.

A village is also the people who show up for you.

That part has been significantly harder for me.

Because I’m very good at being needed.

I know what to do with needed.

Needed has instructions.

Needed gives me a task.

Needed lets me be useful.

Loved?

Just because I’m here?

Loved when I haven’t done anything?

Wanted when nobody needs rescuing?

That shit is suspicious.

Because sometimes I wonder whether people really love me—or whether they love the way I love them.

That’s an ugly sentence.

It’s also true.

When you’re usually the person maintaining relationships, you notice when you stop.

When you’re usually the one reaching out, you wonder how long the silence would last if you didn’t.

When you’re constantly noticing everyone else, part of you starts wondering:

Would anybody notice me?

And then, somehow, I collected people who did.

Not perfectly.

Because these aren’t stories about perfect friendships.

Thank fucking God.

Perfect people sound exhausting.

These are people who have hurt me.

People I’ve hurt.

People I’ve forgiven.

People who have forgiven me.

People who showed up in ways they probably don’t even remember.

People who loved my children.

People who noticed when I disappeared.

People I lost for a while.

People I’m still trying to find my way back to.

People I don’t talk to nearly enough anymore.

People who taught me that sometimes love doesn’t look like being rescued.

Sometimes it looks like somebody remembering you exist on an ordinary Tuesday.

These are some of the people whose chairs have names on them.

And unfortunately for them, I have a blog.

Drop Dead Fred

Drop Dead Fred is older than me.

I’m going to leave it there because I would like to remain alive after publication.

Her nickname, however, exists specifically because her age betrayed her.

The first time we hung out, she tried to explain Five Nights at Freddy’s to me.

Except what came out of her mouth was:

Drop Dead Fred.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

And I informed her that her age was showing.

Some people would have laughed and moved on.

I am not some people.

Once my brain receives information that can be used to lovingly torment someone for the rest of their natural life, it stores that shit in long-term memory.

And thus:

Drop Dead Fred.

Hi, bitch.

I spend a lot of time bothering Fred.

Have you eaten?

Did you drink water?

How are you feeling?

What are you doing?

Why are you doing that?

Please stop doing that.

Because I am emotionally invested in this bitch remaining alive for as long as fucking possible.

I’ve watched her change things about her life.

She stopped smoking cigarettes.

She started drinking water.

She eats more consistently than she used to.

And I want to be very clear about something:

Those are her accomplishments.

I didn’t save her.

I didn’t fix her.

I didn’t drag her toward some better version of herself.

She did that.

I just got the privilege of standing nearby.

That’s something I’ve had to learn about loving people.

Sometimes you don’t carry them anywhere.

Sometimes you just keep a seat open beside you while they figure out where they’re going.

You answer the phone.

You remind them they’re loved.

You tell them you’re proud.

You lovingly harass them about basic nutritional requirements.

And you stay.

I’ve answered FaceTimes while Fred was crying so hard she could barely speak.

I’ve physically held her while she fell apart.

I’ve seen versions of her she probably wishes nobody had to see.

The messy version.

The exhausted version.

The scared version.

The I cannot fucking do this today version.

She’s never had to make those versions prettier for me.

She can show up at 3 PM or 3 AM.

She can show up crying.

She can show up pissed.

She can show up with absolutely no idea what the fuck she’s supposed to do next.

Her chair is still there.

Because she matters to me.

More than I probably tell her.

Maybe more than she knows.

And that’s also why she has had the ability to hurt me.

There are some hurts I don’t know how to explain out loud.

Maybe I never will.

But when someone has a place in your heart, their words know exactly where to land.

Hers landed.

There was a time when Fred said things to me that broke my fucking heart.

And she doesn’t know how badly.

I cried.

I wondered how somebody I loved that much could say things that felt so far removed from who I actually was.

I didn’t understand.

And I didn’t know how to tell her.

So I didn’t.

For a while, something between us was broken.

Not gone.

Broken.

There’s a difference.

Gone means there’s nothing left.

Broken means the pieces are still sitting there.

And eventually, somehow, we started picking them up.

Not through some dramatic movie-scene reconciliation.

Not through one perfect conversation where every wound got acknowledged and everybody said exactly the right thing.

Life rarely gives you dialogue that fucking convenient.

We rebuilt quietly.

One conversation.

One laugh.

One ordinary day.

Then another.

Then another.

Until one day I looked around and realized:

Oh.

There you are.

We were us again.

Different.

But us.

Sometimes forgiveness isn’t pretending something didn’t hurt.

Sometimes it isn’t even receiving the apology you imagined.

Sometimes forgiveness is simply leaving enough room for someone you love to become better than their worst moment.

Fred did.

And I let her.

And maybe that’s why one of my favorite memories of her happened before any of that.

Before Meatball was Meatball.

Before there was a belly.

Before most of the world knew my daughter existed.

She was barely a fucking line.

And Fred was the first person I told.

Some version of:

Holy shit I think I’m pregnant.

She showed up with a digital pregnancy test.

Crackers.

A card.

And a stuffed animal.

For my baby.

My baby who, at that point, was basically a faint line and a maternal identity crisis.

And Fred had already thought:

She should have something.

Before most of the world knew my daughter existed, my friend already thought she deserved a gift.

Fuck.

That still gets me.

The anti-nausea medicine came later.

Maybe because love is mostly little things.

Maybe that’s what I’m learning from all of these people.

Love isn’t always the giant gesture.

Sometimes it’s crackers.

A pregnancy test.

A stuffed animal for a baby who’s barely announced herself.

Sometimes it’s somebody thinking:

You might need this.

I thought of you.

I’m here.

So, hi bitch.

I love you.

I loved you when I was angry.

I loved you when I was hurt.

I loved you while I was trying to figure out whether we could rebuild.

I loved you while we did.

You can’t break my heart unless I gave you a piece of it.

And Fred has one.

She always will.

There is no version of my village where I erase her chair.

It’s hers.

That motherfucker has been through some shit.

Probably needs to be reupholstered.

Maybe reinforced.

But it’s hers.

And every time I nag her about food or water or whatever health behavior I’ve decided to investigate that day, what I’m really saying is something much softer:

Please stay.

Stay in this world.

Stay in my village.

Stay long enough for me to continue irritating the absolute fuck out of you.

I just need her to know she’s loved.

Fiercely.

Stubbornly.

Sometimes with concern.

Frequently with profanity.

Ours isn’t a friendship I treasure because it has never broken.

I treasure it because I know what it looks like after something breaks—

and two people decide there is still something worth keeping.

There was.

There is.

There always fucking will be.

Volkswagen

Volkswagen started as my nail tech.

That was it.

This was supposed to be a business transaction.

I required nails.

She possessed the necessary qualifications.

Money would be exchanged.

Everybody would go home.

Instead, I walked into that first appointment, we started talking, and somewhere during the conversation there was this almost immediate feeling of:

Oh.

There you are.

One of my people.

We both felt it.

We talked about everything.

Not nail-appointment small talk.

Everything.

And early in our friendship, we discovered that neither of us was particularly talented at remembering to fucking eat.

So naturally, rather than becoming responsible adults, we assigned each other supervision.

Bitch, have you eaten?

This is apparently one of my love languages.

Fred got enrolled.

Volkswagen got enrolled.

There is no unsubscribe button.

We talked every day.

And I mean every day.

We checked on each other.

We vented.

She listened.

She gave advice.

She made me laugh—the deep kind where something catches you off guard and for a few seconds the rest of the world shuts the fuck up.

And whenever I said something cruel about myself, she stopped me.

Immediately.

Absolutely not. We don’t do that here.

I don’t think she knew what those daily conversations were doing to me.

Because there was a part of me that had spent years wondering whether people actually liked having me around.

Whether I was annoying.

Whether I was too much.

Whether people really wanted to talk to me or simply tolerated me because I happened to exist in their vicinity.

Volkswagen didn’t know she was arguing with that voice.

She was just talking to her friend.

But every day she chose me again.

Another text.

Another conversation.

Another check-in.

Another have you eaten?

Another laugh.

And every time, that voice got a little quieter.

She thought she was talking to her friend.

Meanwhile, she was helping heal a part of me that had spent years wondering whether anybody would notice if I got quiet.

She noticed.

Every fucking time.

Then she got married.

We had only known each other for a few months.

I already considered her family.

I just didn’t know whether I was family to her.

Her wedding got closer.

I hadn’t received an invitation.

And I wasn’t mad.

I wasn’t offended.

We hadn’t known each other long.

I understood.

But I wanted to go so fucking badly.

I wanted to watch one of my favorite humans marry the love of her life.

Then one day she looked at me and asked:

You’re coming, right? Did you get your invitation?

I told her I hadn’t.

And she basically went:

Well, obviously you’re invited. You need the invitation because you need the address.

Obviously.

To her.

Not to me.

Because what she didn’t know was that she had just answered a question I hadn’t asked.

Am I one of your people too?

Yes.

I was.

And because I am deeply emotionally mature, I responded to this realization by getting teary and immediately laughing it off.

Actual visible emotions?

Absolutely fucking not.

We don’t do that here.

I went to her wedding.

And she was radiant.

Not just pretty.

Radiant.

Her dress.

Her makeup.

That fucking smile.

I remember looking at her and feeling so genuinely happy that she was happy.

Because this is a woman who gives so much of herself away.

She’s been through shit she didn’t deserve.

Life has beat her ass more times than it ever had the right to.

And somehow she stayed soft.

She works her ass off.

She’s so incredibly talented.

I’ve watched her grow her business.

I’ve watched her build something.

I’ve watched her keep going.

And sometimes I want to grab random people by the shoulders and say:

LOOK AT MY FUCKING FRIEND.

Look what she built.

Look what she survived.

Look who she still chose to become.

I am so fucking proud of her.

And I hope she knows she deserves happiness that doesn’t have to be earned through suffering first.

Then she got cancer.

And my heart broke.

Quietly.

Because this wasn’t about me.

She didn’t need to manage my fear while she was dealing with something happening to her.

So I didn’t tell her how scared I was.

I didn’t tell her how deeply the thought of anything happening to her hurt.

I just knew one thing:

My friend needed to be okay.

My entire nervous system basically responded:

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

We don’t do that here.

I wasn’t done loving her yet.

I’m still not.

Before her surgery, I found out what snacks she liked.

What drinks.

I made her a basket.

Snacks.

Drinks.

A blanket.

Nothing enormous.

But I wanted those things to say what I couldn’t fix:

Somebody was thinking about you.

Somebody studied what you like.

Somebody wanted you to feel cared for.

You matter.

Then later, when I was pregnant and money was tight, Volkswagen did my nails for free as my baby shower gift.

Again:

Small thing.

Huge meaning.

One less expense.

One less thing to worry about.

One thing that made me feel like myself while my body and life were changing around me.

She showed up exactly where I needed her.

That’s what she does.

Sometimes with advice.

Sometimes with laughter.

Sometimes with surprise emotional wellness inspections.

Because apparently if I send this woman an unexpected:

I love you.

Her immediate response is:

You okay?

She fucking notices.

Even now.

Maybe some people just walk into your life and your heart recognizes them before your brain catches the fuck up.

I walked into that appointment looking for a nail tech.

I found family.

So Volkswagen, I need you to know something.

Every ordinary conversation mattered.

Every check-in mattered.

Every time you asked whether I ate.

Every time you shut down something ugly I said about myself.

Every time you answered.

Every time you made me laugh.

Every time you made space for me.

You were telling a part of me that didn’t quite believe it yet:

People can want you here.

You had no idea I needed proof somebody wanted me around.

You gave it to me anyway.

Day after day.

That’s one of the greatest gifts anyone has ever accidentally given me.

So when I randomly check on you because something in my stomach says I need to make sure she’s okay—

that’s why.

When I send an I love you out of nowhere—

that’s why.

When I look at what you’re building and feel stupidly fucking proud—

that’s why.

You taught me how powerful it can be when somebody simply says:

I thought about you today.

You made my presence feel like something you would notice the absence of.

Volkswagen, I am so fucking glad you’re here.

I’m glad you’re alive.

I’m glad you’re healing.

I’m glad you’re building.

I’m glad you’re loving.

I’m glad you’re laughing.

I’m glad that first appointment turned into something neither of us went there looking for.

Because you spent so much time unknowingly healing pieces of my heart.

The least I can do is spend the rest of our friendship reminding you just how fucking precious yours is.

Space Buns

Space Buns and I met at work almost six years ago.

At first, we barely spoke.

Then one day we got assigned to check expiration dates in the baby food aisle.

A customer asked a cashier where the water was.

The cashier, completely straight-faced, said:

It’s in the water aisle.

And Space Buns and I fucking lost it.

Was it actually that funny?

Probably not.

Did we laugh about it for approximately seventeen business days?

Absolutely.

And somewhere between checking expiration dates and absolutely losing our shit over the geographical location of bottled water, I found my best friend.

We became inseparable.

We did life together.

Not the curated parts.

The regular shit.

The boring shit.

The devastating shit.

The let’s go spend money on food we absolutely could have eaten at home shit.

Olive Garden.

Crumbl.

Starbucks at work.

Little trips.

Long drives.

Milkshakes.

Pictures.

Waffle House.

A trip where we laughed basically the entire way, got into some stupid fucking fight once we arrived, and then went right back to having fun because apparently emotional stability has never been required for friendship.

The ordinary Tuesdays nobody thinks they’ll remember until years later when they’d give anything to sit inside one of them again.

There are people who know the story of your life because you’ve told it to them.

And then there are people who know it because they were fucking there.

Space Buns was there.

When my heart got broken so brutally that I didn’t know what the fuck to do with the pieces, she helped me pick them up.

She didn’t let me go through it alone.

And when her world hurt, I tried to do the same.

She loved Grandpappy.

Really loved him.

And there’s something about watching someone love your child that makes them part of you in a different way.

She didn’t love him because he belonged to me.

She loved him.

Watching her love him made me love her even more.

Eventually, I moved away.

659 miles.

Different states.

Different routines.

Different lives happening every day without the other person physically there.

So we got tattoos.

She has:

No matter what.

With my zodiac sign.

I have:

No matter where.

With hers.

Because where was changing.

But us wasn’t supposed to.

And for a long time, distance didn’t win.

When I went back home, we were together.

She came to see me.

We still knew how to fall back into us.

Until somewhere along the way, something shifted.

There was a trip home.

She was having a bad day.

Something happened.

A facial expression.

Something I said.

Something small.

And she snapped at me.

She was mean.

And it hurt me so much more than I ever told her.

Because a stranger can be cruel.

A stranger doesn’t know you.

Eventually, you can write them off.

But you?

You know where the soft parts are.

And when somebody you trust hits one of them, even accidentally, it lands differently.

I got quiet.

I pulled away.

She was supposed to move closer to me.

Then she changed her mind.

That hurt too.

Logically, I understood.

Emotionally?

Different fucking department.

By then, we barely talked.

And somewhere along the way, two people who had once refused to let each other go through anything alone started going through things alone.

She wasn’t really there during my pregnancy.

And I felt that absence.

But here’s the part I refuse to leave out:

I wasn’t really there either.

I stopped showing up too.

I got hurt.

I got quiet.

I withdrew.

I let silence do what silence does when nobody interrupts it.

So I can’t write this story like she broke our friendship and I stood there helplessly watching.

That’s not true.

We both contributed to losing each other.

Maybe she was hurting too.

Maybe there are things I did that she never told me about.

Maybe there are parts of this story I don’t know because she got quiet too.

That’s the thing about silence.

Eventually both people start filling in the blanks themselves.

And the longer you do that, the harder it becomes to remember that the other person might be writing an entirely different story in their head.

Eventually, I reached out.

I told her we’d gotten distant.

I told her I didn’t want to lose her.

Since then, we’ve talked more.

She’s visited.

There are pieces of us again.

But if I’m being honest, I don’t think we’ve completely found each other yet.

And that is a very particular kind of grief.

Missing somebody who is still alive.

Still reachable.

Still technically your friend.

But not in the way they used to be.

I think I noticed every single place where she used to be.

Not because she was gone.

Because somehow we had gotten lost from each other.

And fuck, I miss her.

I don’t want to write about Space Buns like she’s somebody I used to know.

I don’t want an ending.

I want my fucking friend back.

But maybe that’s not quite right either.

Because I don’t know if we can go back.

Maybe we shouldn’t.

There were things in the old version of us that helped us get lost.

So maybe the goal isn’t to get us back.

Maybe it’s to build us back.

Something new.

Something honest.

Something made from all the pieces that survived.

Because there has never been a version of this story where I stopped loving her.

Not when I was hurt.

Not when we barely spoke.

Not when I wondered whether we’d ever be what we were.

Not now.

I still remember all of it.

Home.

North Carolina.

Starbucks.

Olive Garden.

Crumbl.

Waffle House.

Milkshakes.

Long drives.

Stupid fights.

Laughing until we couldn’t breathe.

My son loving her.

Her loving him.

And two tattoos that once felt like promises that nothing could ever touch us.

No matter what.

No matter where.

Back then, I think we thought that meant:

Nothing will ever change us.

Maybe we were wrong.

Maybe no matter what, no matter where was never supposed to mean nothing could happen to us.

Maybe it means something can happen—

and we can still decide there’s something worth coming back for.

So Space Buns:

I miss you.

Not in the casual we should hang out sometime way.

I fucking miss you.

I miss my best friend.

I miss being part of your ordinary.

I miss you being part of mine.

And I know wanting something isn’t enough.

I can’t rebuild this friendship alone.

Neither can you.

We both have to show up.

We both have to talk.

We both have to decide.

But for whatever it’s worth:

I’m still here.

I hope someday the stories I tell about Space Buns aren’t mostly stories that begin with remember when.

I hope my daughter gets to know the woman who loved my son so well.

I hope my children grow up knowing why their mother has somebody else’s zodiac sign tattooed on her body.

I hope someday we look at those tattoos and realize that, despite everything, we were right.

Maybe not perfectly.

Maybe not without hurting each other.

Maybe not without fucking up.

Maybe not without getting lost for a while.

But we meant it.

No matter what.

No matter where.

And if there is still a road from wherever the fuck we are now back to each other—

I hope we take it.

I hope we build us back.

Because I still love you, Space Buns.

I still want you in my village.

And no matter how much has changed—

you are still my best friend.

Farmer Barbara 🍑

Okay.

Everybody drink some fucking water.

We need a brief emotional intermission.

Fortunately, I know a farmer with a fantastic ass.

Farmer Barbara and I met at work.

She was a leader in another area.

We passed each other constantly.

She had resting bitch face.

I had resting bitch face.

So naturally, with no conversation, evidence, investigation, or due process whatsoever, we independently reached the only reasonable conclusion:

That bitch is a bitch.

Several side-eyes and dirty looks were exchanged.

This cold war continued despite the fact that neither of us had actually done a goddamn thing to the other.

Then one day, we bitched to each other about work.

And that was it.

Friends forever.

Apparently all we needed was a common enemy.

Capitalism really does bring people together.

She is also quite a bit older than me.

This is becoming a recurring theme in my friendships.

Apparently I enjoy collecting women with more life experience than me and then immediately disrespecting that experience with nicknames like Farmer Barbara.

✨ BALANCE ✨

And yes.

Farmer Barbara has an actual farm.

She also has an absolutely unreasonable amount of ass.

These two facts are equally relevant to her pseudonym.

Some people get beautiful, meaningful nicknames.

Farmer Barbara gets:

🚜🍑

Life isn’t fair.

Once we stopped silently accusing each other of being bitches, we became part of each other’s days.

We vented.

We complained.

We checked in.

And because apparently one of the primary services offered by Emergency Contact LLC is nutritional surveillance, she was added to my daily:

Bitch, have you eaten?

list.

When I needed to vent, I found her.

Sometimes I texted her.

Sometimes I went looking for her at work.

And when she was having a particularly bad day, she’d find me.

There were days I’d be in the middle of working and she’d come looking for me with tears already falling.

So I’d stop.

The work could fucking wait.

I’d hold her while she cried.

I’d talk to her.

I’d let her get whatever she needed to get out until she could breathe again.

Then eventually we’d both go back to whatever bullshit we were supposed to be doing.

I don’t remember when she became one of my people.

There wasn’t some dramatic moment where we sat down and decided we were important to each other.

One day, we were just there.

For everything.

Every time.

And somewhere along the way, she started noticing me too.

There were times I disappeared.

Sometimes because life was heavy.

Sometimes because I was overwhelmed.

Sometimes because I have this terrible habit of assuming that if I stop reaching out, nobody will notice.

Because I’m usually the one who checks.

The one who texts.

The one who asks.

The one who maintains.

And sometimes, if I’m being painfully fucking honest, that leaves me wondering whether people actually love me—

or whether they just love the way I love them.

Farmer Barbara would notice.

If she hadn’t heard from me, she’d reach out.

Are you okay?

Such a tiny fucking thing.

She probably had no idea what it meant to me.

Because when you’re used to being the person who notices everybody else’s absence, there is something profoundly comforting about realizing somebody noticed yours.

She didn’t need anything from me.

I hadn’t forgotten to do something for her.

I wasn’t useful in that moment.

She just noticed I wasn’t there.

She missed me.

And I don’t think I ever told her how much that mattered.

Our friendship has mostly lived at work.

We weren’t the friends constantly sitting in each other’s houses or going everywhere together.

Work was just where we did life.

The good.

The bad.

The ugly.

She knew what was happening with me.

I knew what was happening with her.

There was never judgment.

Never some moment where I showed her an uglier part of myself and felt her love me less for it.

She just knew me.

And loved me anyway.

After I left that store, I still went back to see her.

She’d see Grandpappy there, and she has always loved that kid so fucking much.

She gets genuinely excited when she sees him.

And loving my children is basically cheating your way into the deepest parts of my heart.

She came to see me while I was pregnant.

Then she came again to meet Meatball.

And somewhere in there, Farmer Barbara bought my daughter a car seat.

She didn’t know I was stressed about one.

She didn’t know I was quietly trying to figure out how the fuck I was going to afford something my baby genuinely needed.

I hadn’t asked her to fix it.

She just bought one.

Just because.

To her, maybe it was a gift.

To me, it was one less thing keeping me awake.

One less number I had to make work.

One less thing I was quietly carrying by myself.

She solved a problem she didn’t even know I had.

I don’t think she knows what that meant either.

There are probably a lot of things Farmer Barbara doesn’t know.

We don’t talk every day anymore.

Honestly, we hardly talk now.

Nothing happened.

Nobody hurt anybody.

There isn’t some dramatic friendship breakup waiting to be unpacked.

Life just did what life fucking does.

Days got busy.

Routines changed.

The daily texts became occasional texts.

The person who used to be woven into the ordinary fabric of my day became somebody I love from a little farther away.

And that makes me sad sometimes.

I miss her.

I miss knowing the little things.

I miss the check-ins.

I miss finding each other when the day was kicking our asses.

I miss being part of each other’s ordinary.

But I don’t love her less because our friendship looks different now.

And if I’m going to tell you what I’ve noticed about Farmer Barbara, her ass isn’t actually the important part.

Devastating, I know.

Because I noticed her long before we became friends.

Back when she thought nobody noticed how hard she worked.

I did.

I wasn’t part of her leadership team.

I wasn’t somebody important.

At the beginning, I was barely anybody to her.

I was just some bitch from another area giving her dirty looks because her face had personally offended me.

But I saw her.

I saw how hard she worked.

I saw how much she cared.

I saw how much that job asked from her.

And later, once I knew her, I saw how much it fucking hurt her.

I saw the stress.

The tears.

The exhaustion.

The days when she felt defeated.

The days when she wondered whether any of the work she poured into that place mattered to anybody.

It mattered to me.

I wish she knew that.

I wish she knew they didn’t deserve her.

She deserved so much better than what she got.

She worked so fucking hard.

She was good at what she did.

And even when she thought nobody noticed—

I always noticed her.

I still do.

I wish she could see herself the way I have.

Because she’s beautiful.

And I don’t just mean when she’s dressed up and feeling herself.

I mean she’s beautiful with tears running down her face.

She’s beautiful with bags under her eyes.

She’s beautiful when she’s exhausted.

She’s beautiful when life has beaten the absolute shit out of her.

She’s beautiful with that goddamn resting bitch face that started this entire friendship.

And yes.

She has a fantastic ass.

I am still me.

✨ BALANCE ✨

But more than any of that, I wish she knew she’s worthy.

Not because she’s useful.

Not because she’s hardworking.

Not because she takes care of people.

Not because she’s good at her job.

Not because she can hold everything together.

Just because she’s her.

She’s worthy of softness.

She’s worthy of being taken care of.

She’s worthy of being noticed.

She’s worthy of friendships that don’t require her to be okay before she shows up.

She’s worthy of every good fucking thing this world has to offer her.

And maybe we’re not part of each other’s daily lives anymore.

Maybe life moved us out of the routines where we first learned each other.

But there will always be a chair for Farmer Barbara in my village.

Even if she doesn’t sit in it every day.

Even if months go by.

Even if all we manage sometimes is an occasional I miss you.

It’s still hers.

Because some people don’t stop mattering just because life gets busy.

Some love doesn’t disappear when the routine does.

Sometimes you just carry somebody a little more quietly.

And if she ever wonders whether anybody saw her during that year when she felt invisible, I hope she knows the answer now.

I did.

I saw you, bitch.

Even when I thought you were a bitch.

And I love you.

RBF, farm, dump truck and all.

Gift Box

And then there’s Gift Box.

Fuck.

This is where I stop pretending I’m going to make it through this post with my dignity intact.

Gift Box is my best friend.

My platonic soulmate.

My rock.

My whole fucking heart.

And I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain what makes this friendship different without making it sound like I’ve wandered into the greeting-card aisle and suffered a head injury.

I don’t think I can.

Because I’ve been loved before.

I have.

I’ve had people care about me.

I’ve had beautiful friendships.

I’ve had people show up.

But I don’t think I’d ever been studied before.

Not studied like an experiment.

Studied in the way that says:

You are worth learning.

She paid attention.

She noticed the difference between how I give love and how I actually need to receive it.

And those aren’t always the same thing.

She learned what makes me feel safe.

What makes me feel remembered.

What makes me feel considered.

What makes me feel loved.

There is something almost disorienting about realizing somebody has quietly built a little instruction manual for your heart.

Not because you asked them to.

Because they were paying attention.

Because somewhere along the way, they decided:

I want to know how to love you well.

And Gift Box does.

She sends me cards.

Not because it’s my birthday.

Not because some holiday told her she should.

Just because.

Words of affirmation.

A gift card.

Something that says:

I was thinking about you.

I wanted you to feel loved today.

She threw my baby shower.

She helped get my house ready for it.

She helps with Meatball.

We spend hours on the phone talking about life.

Venting.

Unpacking everything.

Making each other laugh.

Sometimes solving problems.

Sometimes fixing absolutely fucking nothing.

Just being together.

We started a birthday tradition where I go to her house and celebrate my birthday alongside her son’s.

She makes me dinner.

She gets me a birthday cake.

And maybe none of those things sound enormous on their own.

That’s the point.

There wasn’t one grand gesture that made me realize Gift Box loved me.

There were hundreds of small ones.

A card.

Dinner.

Cake.

A phone call.

Holding my baby.

Helping with my home.

Remembering something I said.

Making space for me.

Wanting to hear my voice.

Tonight, she texted me:

I miss you. Do you work tomorrow?

Then:

I’m gonna call you on my way to work if that’s okay. I just miss you and wanna say hi lol.

Nothing was wrong.

She didn’t need help.

There was no emergency.

She didn’t need Emergency Contact.

She just missed me.

Fuck.

That is the part.

Because I am very good at being needed.

I understand why somebody would call me when they need something.

I know what I provide.

Advice.

Support.

Research.

Problem-solving.

A safe place.

A listening ear.

Food.

A ride.

A fucking PowerPoint if necessary.

I can explain why somebody would value those things.

But somebody wanting me around when I haven’t done anything?

Somebody missing my voice?

Somebody choosing my presence simply because it’s mine?

That reaches somewhere much deeper.

Because I’ve spent so much of my life learning people.

Their moods.

Their patterns.

What makes them comfortable.

How they need to be loved.

When silence means leave me alone.

When silence means please fucking notice me.

I’ve learned how to make people feel safe.

I’ve learned how to show up.

I’ve learned how to be useful.

And somewhere along the way, I think I accepted that being the person who notices meant I probably wasn’t going to be the person who got noticed.

Then I met Gift Box.

And that bitch noticed me.

She studied me.

Not because she was waiting for me to fail.

Not because she needed to know which version of me would be easiest for her.

She learned me because she wanted to love me in a way I could actually feel.

I don’t know if she understands how healing that has been.

Because there are people who love you for what you do.

There are people who love you because of the role you fill in their life.

And then there are people who make you feel like you could put everything down—

all the usefulness,

all the strength,

all the jokes,

all the caretaking,

all the ways you’ve learned to earn your place—

and they would look at you sitting there empty-handed and still say:

There you are.

That’s my person.

Gift Box gives me that.

The certainty that I am loved.

Not tolerated.

Not useful.

Not loved because of what I can provide.

Not loved only when I’m easy or funny or strong or available.

Just…

loved.

And that’s difficult for me to write.

Because friendship gets treated like some lesser form of love.

People say just friends.

There is no just in just friends when I talk about her.

Friendship can be one of the great loves of your life.

Gift Box is one of mine.

My platonic soulmate.

My whole fucking heart walking around outside my body with her own life and her own family and absolutely no fucking clue how many times her existence has made mine softer.

And I hope she knows I show up for her too.

I hope she knows she can call.

I hope she knows I’ll listen.

I’ll carry what I can.

I’ll sit beside what I can’t.

I’ll love her loudly for as long as she’ll let me.

But sometimes I look at everything she has been for me and think:

How could I ever give back something equivalent to this?

Not because friendship is a scoreboard.

It isn’t.

But because she gave me something I didn’t know I still needed.

She taught me what it feels like to be cared for.

Not managed.

Not rescued.

Cared for.

I hope she knows that when I call her my rock, I don’t mean she’s responsible for holding me together.

That’s not her job.

I mean:

I know where solid ground is.

I know there is somebody in this world who has seen me overwhelmed.

Exhausted.

Messy.

Emotional.

Ridiculous.

Scared.

Loud.

Quiet.

Probably fucking insufferable.

And somehow still went:

Yep.

That’s my person.

There is something profoundly healing about being known and not having the knowing used against you.

Being studied and not scrutinized.

Being seen and not judged.

Being loved intentionally.

Gift Box makes me remember that I am allowed to occupy a chair too.

Sometimes somebody else gets to ask if I’ve eaten.

Sometimes somebody else gets to notice I’ve gone quiet.

Sometimes somebody else gets to call just because they miss me.

Sometimes I don’t have to earn my place by being useful.

Sometimes I don’t have to be Emergency Contact.

I can just be somebody’s person.

And maybe that’s the greatest gift she has ever given me.

Not the cards.

Not the dinners.

Not the cakes.

Not the baby shower.

Not everything she’s physically done for me.

She gave me the experience of being loved in a language I understand.

Everybody deserves somebody who learns how to love them well.

I got Gift Box.

And if I’m everybody else’s Emergency Contact—

she’s mine.

Pull Up a Fucking Chair

Maybe that’s the village.

I thought I understood it when I started writing this.

I thought this was going to be a post about the people I love and the ways I show up for them.

Turns out that’s only half the fucking story.

Because Fred taught me that love can be hurt and still survive.

Not because hurt doesn’t matter.

Because sometimes there’s enough love left after the breaking to build something from.

Volkswagen taught me that consistency can heal wounds you didn’t create.

Sometimes you don’t even know you’re helping somebody believe they’re worth choosing.

You’re just answering the fucking phone.

Space Buns taught me that love doesn’t automatically disappear when people lose each other.

Sometimes no matter what, no matter where gets tested.

Sometimes you don’t get the old thing back.

Sometimes you have to decide whether you’re willing to build something new.

Farmer Barbara taught me the power of being noticed.

She thought nobody saw her.

I did.

I wondered whether anybody would notice me.

She did.

And Gift Box taught me that after a lifetime spent learning how to love everybody else, somebody might come along and decide you’re worth learning too.

Maybe being the Emergency Contact was never really about paperwork.

Maybe it’s just what happens when you decide:

If you’re one of mine, you don’t have to do this shit alone.

And this village?

It’s rated E for Everyone.

Babies.

Mamas.

Women without children.

Men.

People doing great.

People falling apart.

People who need advice.

People who need food.

People who need somebody to shut the fuck up and sit beside them.

We don’t discriminate.

You don’t have to be okay before you come here.

You don’t have to make yourself easier to love.

You don’t have to know what you need.

You don’t have to earn your chair.

Sometimes village looks like holding somebody while they cry.

Sometimes it’s buying a car seat without knowing you just solved a problem that was keeping somebody awake.

Sometimes it’s crackers and a stuffed animal for a baby who’s barely a line.

Sometimes it’s an invitation that quietly answers:

Yes. You’re one of my people too.

Sometimes it’s admitting:

I miss you. I want my fucking friend back.

Sometimes it’s noticing somebody hasn’t texted today.

Sometimes it’s calling when absolutely nothing is wrong because you just miss their voice.

Sometimes it’s:

Bitch, have you eaten?

And sometimes, because truthfulness is spiritually important, it’s acknowledging that somebody in your village is hauling an absolutely unreasonable amount of freight.

🚜🍑

✨ BALANCE ✨

I don’t know how to love people casually.

I don’t think I ever have.

I notice.

I worry.

I check.

I feed.

I hover.

I send random I love you texts and apparently make everybody immediately wonder whether I’m dying.

I keep chairs.

And I’m slowly learning to sit in mine.

Maybe none of us were ever supposed to be the adult alone.

Maybe we were supposed to build villages.

Messy ones.

Imperfect ones.

Villages where people fuck up.

Where friendships change.

Where sometimes somebody gets lost.

Where sometimes they find their way home.

Where somebody notices when a chair has been empty too long.

Where you’re allowed to come back.

Where love isn’t measured by how useful you are.

Where nobody has to put themselves back together before they’re allowed through the door.

There is a chair here for the crying version.

The angry version.

The exhausted version.

The scared version.

The version who fucked up.

The version who doesn’t know what happens next.

The version who hasn’t eaten.

Especially that bitch.

Come sit down.

You don’t have to do anything.

You don’t have to bring anything.

You don’t have to earn your place.

You’re one of ours.

That’s enough.

Pull up a fucking chair.

We’ve got you.

And somebody please make sure Fred ate.

-EC