The stories we tell
On the stories that hold us back when friendships fall away
I’m sitting in my kitchen looking out into the backyard. With November comes a change in color — the grass less vibrant, the red porch chairs a gray hue from the frosty film of morning. And yet, I notice the twinkly lights that are finally strung up, the new bronze fire pit, the trees still burning with an orange-yellow glow.
This year, I feel more ready than ever to go into winter. Yes, yes — I know there’s still a month and a half until then. But in the past, I’ve gripped to autumn with clenched fists, resisting the cold and all that comes with it.
It makes sense that this year I’ve let go of that resistance. By tending to my home — tending to the hearth — I’ve tilled the soil for a brighter winter. No longer fearful of short days and long nights, I go toward the night with a chin held high, open to winter joy — rather, expecting winter joy.
In the last week or two, I’ve been thinking about what happens to friendship after experiencing personal transformation. If you read (or have read) this newsletter, it likely comes as no surprise that I’ve lost many friends on my journey of healing. And in a way, I felt the loss of those friendships long before they ever happened.