Learning to Stay
Combine: April 10th, 2022, December 5th, 2023, and February 3rd, 2024
I've noticed something my friends say - that they had to "force" their way into friendship with me. At first, this confused me. I'm the one who invites people out, who brings groups together, who shares stories and laughs easily. But lately I'm starting to understand what they mean. It's not about getting into my life - it's about staying there when I try to create distance, about pushing past the highlight reels and funny stories to see the real stuff underneath.
I'm really good at being the friend who helps. Need someone to edit your resume at 2 AM? I'm there. Relationship crisis? I'll listen for hours. Moving day? Count me in. I know how to show up for others. But when the tables turn, when someone notices I'm struggling and tries to help? That's when my instinct to run kicks in. Because letting someone help means letting them see that I'm not always strong, not always together, not always fine.
It's a strange pattern to recognize in yourself. I'm good at friendship on the surface - the adventures, the late-night talks, the being there when someone needs help. But the moment someone starts to see beyond that, to notice the cracks in my carefully maintained image, I feel this urge to pull back. To create distance. To protect the parts of myself I'm not ready for anyone to see.
That's what my friends mean by "forcing" their way in. They're the ones who kept showing up when I got distant, who kept inviting me out when I started to pull away, who refused to let me disappear behind my walls just because they got a glimpse of my imperfections. It takes a special kind of persistence to keep reaching out to someone who's trying to fade into the background of their own life.
The other night in the BME building showed me how this works. I'd been pulling all nightery with my hoodies up and sunglasses on, barely eating, and non-stop headaches. When my friend texted asking if I needed anything, my response was automatic: "I'm good, just on the grind." But she showed up anyway with food, drinks, and ibuprofen. As she sat there, making sure I actually ate something, I felt this mix of emotions I couldn't quite name. Part of me wanted to ask her to leave, to preserve this image of having it all together. But she stayed, and somehow that felt both terrifying and exactly what I needed.
I'm starting to understand something about friendship that I've been getting wrong. I thought being a good friend meant being the strong one, the reliable one, the one who's always fine. But my friends - the ones who forced their way past my barriers - they show me that real friendship isn't about being perfect. It's about being real. About letting people see the messy parts, the struggling parts, the parts that aren't Instagram-worthy highlights.
Some days are harder than others. Sometimes I still catch myself pulling back when people get too close to seeing the real me. But I'm learning to recognize that urge to run, to question it. Because these friends who refused to let me disappear? They've shown me that staying - really staying - means being seen. Even when it's scary. Even when every instinct says to put up another wall.
The thing about friendship - real friendship - is that it's not just about showing up for others. It's about letting others show up for you too, even when that feels like the hardest thing in the world.
SK
