What I value most in a friend is connection—not the curated kind that fits easily into timelines or tidy stories, but the irregular, slightly-wild kind that speaks underneath the words. The kind that lives in glances, in shared silences, in laughter that makes you double over even when nothing made sense (and maybe shouldn’t have). It’s not about consistency in presence—it’s about coherence in essence. When we meet someone who doesn’t shrink from the odd or awkward parts of us—who doesn’t require explanation or containment to stay in the room—that’s connection. And it’s rare. Maybe that’s why it matters so much—or maybe it’s just the human version of Wi-Fi: we know when it’s working, and we really know when it’s not (Shen et al., 2023 – eLife).
Connection doesn’t always last in linear time. Some friends come and go like comets—brilliant, brief, unforgettable (and occasionally catastrophic). Others stay, but quietly—folded into the backdrop of your life like a favorite old sweater: familiar, a little stretched, never out of reach, possibly unraveling at the cuffs—but you love it more for that. The shape of the friendship doesn’t matter as much as the way it holds you in your wholeness. There are people I’ve only seen once, and yet I carry them—still—in my chest. There are others I’ve known for years, but never truly met (they may still be out there, texting “lol” into the void) (Güroğlu et al., 2008 – NeuroImage).
And when you do meet someone fully, it doesn’t mean it’ll be seamless. Sometimes it’s messy—gorgeous, raw, disorienting. We trigger each other. We mirror each other’s work. And if the friendship is real, it makes space for that without collapsing (although sometimes, yes, it dramatically threatens to). That’s where #oddthenticity lives—in the friendships that aren’t tidy, but true. Where you can be a little offbeat, a little inconsistent, even unfiltered—and still be felt as worthy. As real. As “oh, that’s just them” in the most endearing possible way (Walker & McGlone, 2013 – Neuropeptides).
There’s immense gratitude in that. In being known without needing to be fixed. In being remembered even when you forget yourself (or your keys, or your point mid-sentence). I don’t need a friend to rescue me or explain me or hold me perfectly. I just need to feel met. A friend who says, in their own way—I see you, weird little human. And I like you anyway. That’s everything.
So when I say “connection,” I’m not talking about perfection. I’m talking about resonance. The kind that doesn’t flinch when the tune is strange—or when it shifts into something entirely off-key. The kind that keeps playing even if we’re apart, because it’s not a sound—it’s a frequency. And once you’ve felt it, you know: real friendship is less about staying the same, and more about staying open (and maybe bringing snacks).
Sometimes we grow apart—and that’s natural. We’re not always meant to grow side by side, not forever. Sometimes paths diverge softly, without a rupture—just a slow turning of seasons, a shift in the light. And sometimes, with time or healing or chance, they find their way back to us—different, but still familiar. I’ve stopped making that mean something it doesn’t. It doesn’t have to be a wound. It doesn’t need a villain. (Though, yes, some part of me still tries to cast myself in the tragic hero role. I’m working on it.)
I used to shrink myself—quieting what was bright or strange or too much—just to fit inside someone else’s story. A side character in their comfort zone. A shadow version of myself. It was exhausting. And honestly, a little heartbreaking. Now? Now I show up as I am. Not perfect—not polished—but present. I invite people to meet me there. Not to fix me, not to flatter me, but to walk beside me for as long as it feels right for both of us. (And if you brought coffee, even better.)
If we reach a fork in the road—if their story asks them to go left while mine leans right—I let them go with grace. I don’t tug. I don’t chase. I honor the time we shared for what it was: something real, something worth remembering. And I do that without assigning fault or clinging to closure. That’s the gift of maturity, maybe—that we can love without possession. That we can release without erasure. That we can say, “Thank you for existing exactly when you did,” and mean it—without sending a follow-up email.
Because the truth is, some people will never be ready to see the value you offer—not because you lack it, but because they haven’t yet uncovered that part in themselves. That’s not rejection. That’s timing. And it’s okay. Truly, deeply okay. I would rather be met in truth—fleeting or enduring—than be half-held in someone’s confusion.
So now, I walk with an open hand. I no longer grip tightly to what’s meant to move, and I don’t apologize for the way I shine—or shift (or overshare on occasion). I trust that the right people will recognize something in me that feels like home, not because I performed it, but because I lived it. I trust myself to be enough—even when I’m still becoming. Even when I’m alone.
And when someone does choose to walk beside me, even for a little while, I receive it with full heart. That’s the beauty of it—friendship not as possession, but as presence. Not forced or forever-bound, but willingly offered, moment by moment. A shared step, a shared breath, a shared becoming.
I don’t need every connection to last—I just want it to be real while it’s here. And when it is, I let it shape me. I let it teach me. I let it go, when it’s time.
That’s peace. That’s hope. That’s how I know I’m not walking alone—even when I am. Because I’m not trying to be chosen anymore. I’m just choosing myself, every time.
And from that place—connection isn’t something I chase. It’s something I welcome.
English
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