True talk #6: New friendships after 30

Nouvelles amitiés dans une nouvelle ville

“Onitemi” by Modupe Odusote- I saw this my first week in Paris.

At a certain age, you close ranks, you close in on yourself. I did it too. Trust me, I know. Saw my life and whispered that it was good. Wrapped my arms around the fullness of it, the people, the things, wanting to preserve it exactly as it was. No intruders please. 

And then I got bored. Having love, having beauty, but lacking new voices, places. Too familiar with my old reflection. This is what brought me here, to Paris. Arriving as alone as the day I was born, and I felt, for the first time in a long time, lonely. But ready to try, to see, like me at my most willing.  

How hard it is to start over after 30. Meeting people who are like I was once, with ranks closed. I don’t blame them. Do you know how many years it takes to build a dialogue between people? First, the small words, placing them in schools, in jobs, understanding where they fit in the world. And then, the bigger ones, like who they are, what they believe, what they wish for. Before the jokes come, the ones you can blurt out unthinking, the silences you don’t have to pad, the posture that spills itself on the floor. That shit takes years. And here I come, ready to try. Palms open, placing them around closed fists. 

How strange it is to be in a new place, and to consider yourself — your old body, your old ways, and to wonder what parts of you are inherently difficult to consume there, simply as a matter of fact, or culture. And what parts might depend on the taste of certain individuals. You look at yourself, outside yourself, with all the anxiety that entails, and you judge, the way you feel you might be judged. Anticipating what you think must come — the approval or disapproval of the ones you approach, hoping to get friendship from. It’s difficult.

First, it’s the time, and then it’s the way we are when we’re older. Squeezing soft moments between so much life — so much work, so much thinking, so much striving for purpose. Fitting laughter in the crevices. Adulting. I get that too. This is how I am with the ones I’ve known before, the way we see each other and press down months into minutes, deliver all the living and breathing we’ve missed in highlights. And so, in this new place, I get snatches too.

There is the trying. For someone like me, with pride like mine, this is hard. The putting yourself out there and opening your arms, and welcoming. Saying, here, sit there, eat this, see the way I smile and greet you. Saying, I’m ready, open to receive. It’s hard to be this, and to feel the rebuffing that sometimes comes. The people who see the smile and turn away. 

Then there are the men, holding you up to the light and squinting, trying to see first if this could be something more. With love or lust glimmering like a promise. And walking away if it’s not. Not pausing, not lingering if you like the same things, if you could have good chats. And that’s hard. I grew up with boys, I say. My first friends were boys. Before I understood that I was different. That there were things about me I needed a woman to explain. 

There are the friends that I’ve found. Easy things growing with little effort. Natural. Laughter coming without the time it takes. Words spilling over each other to emerge. There’s the magic of meeting people, sometimes even for a moment, and feeling that it was worth it. This magic, a trade for your openness. 

And sometimes it’s not. Sometimes I’ve picked people up and had to put them back down, observed them in the light of day and seen that they were not for me.

Sometimes, I run home to those who know me best, to those who can steady my nerves with a soothing word. Who remind me of what it feels like to be known without explaining, without thinking. I run home when I’m depleted and ashamed, and my friends remind me, again and again. They hold me by my shoulder and say, look. This is who you are. And I thank them for it. 

I learn about myself now. About what I sound like when I speak to new people, how I talk, how I carry myself, what I choose to say. All the ways I’m different in this new place. But even still, I’ve always loved my own moments. The time I spend with my thoughts. Thinking of how best to get them into words. Or looking at things that inspire me, undiluted by someone’s voice. 

It’s a hard thing, starting over, staying open. But still, I look at what I’ve built in the time I’ve been here. I look at who I’ve become, more generous with myself, with others, and I say, it is good. 

Prompt:

How do you feel about new friendships? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.