A Case For Surrendering To The Love Of Your Friends

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do was ask my friends to love me. I know that sounds silly, maybe even trite. And I know that they do. They always have. But it took two earth-shattering breakups, some ego death, a literal death, a new apartment, some old patterns, three seasons of We Can Do Hard Things, and half of The Artist’s Way to realize how much I was missing in my platonic relationships. How the distance from my sense of self was enabled by the arm’s length at which I kept even my closest of friends.

For the record, I’m no introvert; I’m the poster child of people-persons and a recovering people-pleaser. There isn’t an aloof bone in my body. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’ve spent most of my young-adult life priding myself on the orbit I’ve built around me, filled with friendships that felt expansive and tender and true. I’m listed as an emergency contact in multiple states. I’m an active listener. I’m a Libra moon. I mean, I’m a lesbian. All I know how to do is make sustained eye contact and connect.

And yet, even in the most intimate exchanges with friends, I’ve been quick to perform a palatable version of myself. I’d been living in the liminal space between an Instagram “Close Friends” story and the hard truth. I knew how to be the right kind of vulnerable, sharing a safe version of my mess, one that’s real yet refined, complex yet laughable, divisive yet permissible. I never had a wall up, just a fence protecting the perimeter of my full self.

Asking for my needs only felt possible if I tacked on a “lol” or worse, a “no worries if not!” to the end of a question. The truth is I do worry if not. Often, in fact! I worry I come across as needy. I worry I won’t have enough to give in return. I worry that all that I am is too much. I worry I will be told no. I worry that even if I am told yes, I will be let down. My fear of dependency in my friendships was part of my psyche. I thought that asking for too much help or being held for too long would make me seem small.

When I looked around, I saw this trap everywhere–everyone stuck in their little silos only ever giving half of themselves away, terrified to ask their friends for more so that they wouldn’t feel as alone in this life.

That’s exactly where I stood, hot off the heels of a painful breakup that left me nowhere to go but inward. It’s easy for me to dive into the deep end of romantic love, get lost in it all, and leave myself behind. (My Taurus Venus is a blessing and a curse…the aforementioned Libra moon as well.)

I’m not sure if this period was a dark night of the soul, but being so alone with myself somehow afforded me the freedom and clarity to finally ask for help. It is no easy feat to lean–and really put your whole weight–on the people that love you. But I couldn’t pretend to be big anymore. I’ve been playing that part for 20 years now. I had no choice but to ask my friends for love.

It felt like the first time in a long time that I really looked at myself and saw it all. It felt like maybe, for the first time, I loved myself enough to ask for help. I stutter, even still, saying the words out loud, letting them sit on my dry tongue.

But I dropped my ego, put down everyone else’s things, stretched out my shaky hands, and to my surprise, love rushed to my side. Love poured over me, showed up at my door, eager and willing to nurse me back to health. Love talked me down, built me back up, carried me through, fed my empty belly, heard me out, held me close, and guided me back to myself.

We are not entitled to love. We have to seek it out, call its name. Love isn’t an exchange, it is an ask.

We convince ourselves too easily that we don’t need other people, that we are asking for too much, or that asking for anything at all is already excessive. Whether it’s a symptom of capitalism or Christianity, we’ve been conditioned to think that our platonic relationships should have limitations.

We skim over the social contracts we sign with our friends, not realizing they are all worthy of a close reading. There, we would find a clause about what a commitment to care and reciprocity really looks like. Sure, this at-will agreement allows us to leave whenever we might need, but when we mark that dotted line, we choose to try and make a life together.

We’ve reserved too much of our wholeness for lovers and family, but aren’t friendships just that? At least the good ones are, in my book. So when I ask my friends to love me–as difficult as the request remains–I hold out hope that there is room for my bad habits, complexities, mistakes, and humanity.

I promise to hold theirs, too.