For much of my life, I worked. I poured myself into career, family, projects, and responsibilities — and somehow, without meaning to, I left very little space for cultivating close, lasting friendships with women outside of those familiar roles.
But now, in this new season, I’m finding that the women I surround myself with bring a kind of nourishment no salad, no mocktail, no victory log can offer — though all those things pair beautifully with laughter around a shared table.
Last night at book club, we discussed a heavy book — war, loss, heroism, unbearable suffering — and yet what stood out wasn’t the plot. It was the people. The real gift wasn’t the novel but the excuse to gather, to pause, to talk, to listen. As I looked around the room, I noticed the wide age span: from 28 to 94. I mentioned how much we’d miss the women who were traveling. We missed them because they matter. Because they belong.
One woman, well into her 90s, spoke about the atmosphere during World War II — not from something she read, but from something she lived. Her voice cracked open a doorway to the past, one we could all walk through together with reverence. It reminded me how rare and sacred it is to have a space where stories live — where memories breathe — where generations intertwine like the rings of an old oak tree.
We weren’t just a book club. We were a circle. A sanctuary.
Cultivating friendships like these doesn’t always come naturally — especially later in life when habits are formed, and schedules feel set. But I’ve come to believe that showing up, even imperfectly, is enough. Choosing to invite someone to lunch. Saying yes to a meeting. Making space in the day for shared laughter or quiet presence. These are the things that stitch the soul together.
We are not meant to go it alone.
So now, I go to book club. I reach out. I listen with both ears and my whole heart. Because in the circle of women, I’ve found more than companionship — I’ve found wisdom, joy, belonging, and the grace of becoming more fully myself.