Call a Friend

On a recent Zoom call, someone asked, “What do you do to nurture yourself? Where do you find comfort?”

The answers came fast and fragrant: hot, sudsy baths (the group was all women, so of course), curling up with a good book, snuggling with a snoring pet, massages, facials, walks in nature, and bingeing on Netflix until the popcorn ran out.

Each response was revealing and made me realize I didn’t have an instant one. What does sustain me? Especially during the Covid isolation years, when touch and laughter had to be filtered through a screen?

I mentally rummaged through the shelves of my soul, dusting off old comforts. I write daily, and that’s my mental moisturizer. I walk my doglets, who remind me that enthusiasm counts as exercise. I daydream about my next professional massage, preferably one that doesn’t involve essential oils named Desperation.

But underneath it all, one answer rose to the surface: friends. Laughing together, crying together, telling the truth about ourselves without fear of judgment, that’s the good stuff. A friend’s arms around me, or her snarky text when arms aren’t available, holds me up and reminds me I’m still worth hugging.

Friendship isn’t fast food; it’s a slow-simmer recipe. It takes time, seasoning, and a willingness to stir the pot without burning it. The number of friends doesn’t matter. What matters is tending to the ones who make you feel most alive.

A true friend is a walk in nature, a deep massage, a day of writing, and a mini-meditation rolled into one. When I need to nurture myself, I call a friend. She’s cheaper than therapy, better than chocolate, and always takes my call, even if it’s just to say, “You again?”