As We Are

The passing of Gloria Steinem recently made me think about women.

Not feminism exactly. Not politics.

Women.

The ones who stand beside us. Who celebrate our wins without measuring them against their own. Who sit with us when things are hard. Who tell us the truth, even when it isn't necessarily the truth we were hoping to hear.

The women who make us laugh.

The women who remind us who we are.

And inevitably, I thought about Nikki.

Nikki and I met in 2024 in a coaching class. We were part of a small cohort working toward the same goal—completing our Level 1 coaching requirements so we could take our certification exam.

We hit it off pretty quickly.

There was something about her warm smile, sunny personality and confidence that I gravitated toward. Something a little different from me, but familiar at the same time.

For weeks, we practiced together. We coached one another, refined our skills, gave feedback and eventually crossed the finish line together.

When the program ended, Nikki, another coach from our cohort and I decided to keep meeting every couple of weeks. The idea was to check in on our practices, talk about clients and continue learning from one another.

At least that's how it started.

Soon the conversations stretched beyond coaching.

We talked about our kids. Our families. Our careers. Our relationships. The things we were struggling with and the things we were dreaming about.

Biweekly conversations became weekly. Weekly became more often.

And somewhere along the way, Nikki and I stopped being two coaches who stayed in touch after class.

We became friends.

And then, somehow, family.

Today, we talk just about every day.

There is always something to talk about.

And plenty of it isn't particularly profound.

We giggle about boy stories. We dissect the latest drama. We share fashion finds and opinions. We send each other things that require immediate discussion and occasionally devote a ridiculous amount of analysis to situations that probably deserve about thirty seconds.

There are moments when two accomplished, grown women—with careers, children, responsibilities and decades of life experience—sound remarkably like teenage girls on the phone.

I love that about us.

Because somewhere in all the seriousness of adulthood, friendship can return us to parts of ourselves we may have forgotten.

The playful parts.

The ridiculous parts.

The girl who existed before all the titles and responsibilities accumulated.

Maybe the people who know us best don't only witness who we're becoming.

Sometimes they remind us of who we've always been.

What strikes me most about my friendship with Nikki is when it happened.

She didn't know me as a child. She wasn't my college roommate. We didn't stand beside each other at our weddings or raise our babies together.

She entered my life when I was already a fully formed adult woman.

And somehow, she became one of my people.

There is something extraordinary about the friendships that carry decades of history. The people who knew us before marriages and careers and children. The ones who remember versions of ourselves we barely recognize anymore.

But I've discovered there is something extraordinary about being found later, too.

Because Nikki didn't meet the twenty-year-old version of me.

She met me as I am.

With the history. The accomplishments. The scars. The confidence I've earned and the insecurities I still carry. The lessons I've learned and the ones I apparently need to learn a few more times.

And I met her the same way.

We came from different backgrounds and had lived very different lives. But the more we talked, the more we discovered that so many of the themes underneath our experiences were remarkably similar.

So naturally, we decided to write a book together.

Because apparently becoming close friends wasn't enough of a commitment.

The book is still under construction.

We'll get back to it one of these days.

But somewhere in the process of trying to write about our experiences and how they might help other women, something far more important emerged.

Sisterhood.

For me, Nikki is one of the few people with whom I feel completely and wholly safe.

There is no performance required.

I don't have to make the good things smaller. I don't have to make the hard things more palatable. I don't have to arrive with the polished version of the story.

I can celebrate loudly with her.

I can fall apart with her.

I can be uncertain.

I can be ridiculous.

I can simply show up as I am.

And there is something noticeably absent from our friendship:

Competition.

Her success doesn't diminish mine.

When something wonderful happens for Nikki, I genuinely celebrate it. I want her to win. I want her to take up space. I want her to become everything she's working toward.

And I know she wants the same for me.

When one of us is struggling, the other sits there too.

But sitting beside someone doesn't always mean agreeing with her.

Nikki will absolutely and undeniably call me out on my bullshit.

Constructively. With love. But she will call it.

And I value that enormously.

Because safety isn't having someone agree with everything you say.

Sometimes safety is knowing someone loves you enough to challenge the story you're telling yourself—and knowing that challenge poses absolutely no threat to the relationship.

Which brings me back to coaching.

One of the fundamentals of coaching is the belief that the person sitting across from us already has the answers within them.

Our job isn't to tell someone what to do.

It's to listen. Ask the questions. Challenge assumptions. Create enough space for someone to hear what she already knows.

I know this.

I practice it with my clients.

I believe it deeply.

And then, apparently, when it comes to my own life, I occasionally forget all of it.

That's where Nikki comes in.

I can bring her a situation and turn it over seventeen different ways.

I can explain every nuance, explore every possible interpretation and occasionally build a remarkably compelling case for the answer I would prefer to be true.

She listens.

She asks questions.

And eventually, in one way or another, she hands it right back to me.

You already know.

Damn it.

I usually do.

I may not like the answer. I may not be ready to face it. I may need to circle it seventeen more times. I may even check again tomorrow to see if perhaps the answer has changed overnight.

But I know.

Nikki didn't teach me that.

She makes me practice it.

She makes the coach practice what she preaches.

And that's the gift.

She doesn't make me more dependent on her wisdom.

She reminds me to trust my own.

The older I get, the more I understand how rare—and how important—it is to find people like that.

Your tribe.

Your sisters. Your brothers. Your supporters.

The people who celebrate without competing. Who listen without judging. Who challenge without diminishing. Who give as freely as they receive. Who somehow leave you feeling more like yourself after you've spent time with them.

Some of those people will be women.

Some will be men.

Some will have known us almost our entire lives.

And some will walk into a coaching class in the middle of our lives and completely surprise us.

I think part of finding our people is staying open enough to recognize them when they arrive.

But I also think there's another side to it.

Sometimes making room for the relationships that belong in our lives now means being willing to recognize when another relationship's chapter has closed.

Not every person who was important to us once is meant to walk beside us forever.

That's difficult to accept.

History has weight. Loyalty has weight. Familiarity has weight.

We can hold onto relationships because of who someone was to us, even when the relationship no longer reflects who either of us has become.

But closing a chapter doesn't erase it.

It doesn't mean the relationship wasn't real.

It doesn't mean the person wasn't important.

It simply means that perhaps their part in our story has changed.

And maybe that's one of the quieter lessons of getting older.

Learning what to hold onto.

Learning what to release.

And staying open to what—and who—might still be coming.

Because there are people in our lives who have known every version of us.

There are people who knew a version of us that no longer exists.

And then, every once in a while, someone arrives who meets the person standing here today.

No explanation required.

No competition.

No performance.

Just two people willing to see one another clearly, challenge one another lovingly, celebrate one another completely and make room for all the serious, messy, ambitious, vulnerable—and occasionally ridiculous—parts.

Maybe that's the real gift of finding your people.

Not that they complete you.

Not that they always agree with you.

Not even that they'll necessarily be beside you forever.

It's that while they're here, they give you a place where you don't have to be anything other than yourself.

And you give them the same.

As we change.

As we grow.

As we are.