I Thought I Didn’t Have Room for Any New Friends—Thank God I Was Wrong

The friendship that almost didn’t happen.

Twenty years ago everything changed. 

The room was warm, but not in an unbearable way. It was the kind of warmth that comes from too many bodies in a space meant for slightly fewer. A low buzz of conversation filled the air, mingling with the scent of warm smoked haddock, marinated hanger steak, and something citrusy. I didn’t know what I expected my first bris to feel like, but this—fine dining and friendly chatter—wasn’t it.

My friend Jill and I arrived late and slipped quietly to the back away from the crowd, not wanting to interrupt the ceremony already in progress. A few minutes in, she shifted beside me, fanning herself with the program.

“Is it really hot in here?” she whispered.

I shook my head from side to side. “Not really.” I say, looking at her with concern. “Everything okay?” I move closer and grab her elbow. 

She swallows hard, presses her fingertips to her forehead. “I feel—”

And before she can finish, she wobbles. Her eyes flicker, and in an almost slow-motion collapse, she folds forward, her head just missing the table before sliding onto the floor.

I react too late.

“Oh my god, Jill?” I reach for her, shaking her gently. Ahead of us, the ceremony continues. The parents are glowing, the mohel is speaking, and no one seems to have noticed that my friend has just fainted at a circumcision.

Then, out of nowhere, a stranger appears—a woman about my age, blonde hair, sharp eyes, moving quickly with a glass of water in hand like someone who’s used to handling minor crises.

“Is she okay?” she asks, plucking a linen napkin off the table. She dips it in the glass of water and dabs Jill’s forehead.

“I don’t know. It happened so fast,” I say, looking around to see if anyone else is coming to help but also secretly hoping we would all just disappear. 

The stranger and I exchange looks of panic—half smiling, half shrugging. She keeps dabbing Jill’s face with steady hands, while I, far less gracefully, wave my hand over her in a frantic fanning motion. 

Jill groans softly, her lashes flickering. The woman tilts the water glass to her lips.

Jill blinks up at us, dazed. “Did I just—”

“You sure did,” I confirm.

The woman hands me the napkin to keep fanning Jill, then leans in and lowers her voice “Could be worse. At least you didn’t take the tablecloth down with you.”

I let out an unexpected laugh. “Thanks for your help. I’m Nicholetta, by the way. Nic for short.”

She sticks out her hand, “Kara.”

Thankfully, Jill was fine, and the three of us spent the rest of the afternoon together. We made some small talk—just enough to realize Kara and I both had two-year-old daughters and lived only a few blocks apart. As things were winding down, Kara tore a corner from the ceremony program, scribbled down her number, and handed it to me. I smiled, tucked it into my pocket, but had no real plans of calling. Making new friends wasn’t really something I did anymore. 

Up until my 30s, most of my friendships had grown out of shared routines and familiar places. Childhood friends who knew my parents and my awkward phases. University friends bonded over late-night study sessions and bad wine. Work friends who could relate to horrible bosses and office politics. 

But when I became the first in my core group to have a baby, things shifted. No one disappeared exactly, but suddenly we weren’t in sync and I didn’t have the time to connect with them the way I wanted. I was a new mother, juggling a demanding job, the unpredictable days of early parenthood, and the constant struggle to carve out space for everything that needed my attention. Their lives kept moving—nights out, spontaneous plans, full conversations—and mine became centered around feedings, naps, and a baby who needed me around the clock. 

And still, I didn’t go looking for new mom friends who could relate. The idea felt exhausting. Like starting from scratch when I could barely manage the relationships I already had. Most days, it felt like I was running on empty, with hardly anything left to give the people who needed me most. I didn’t have the time or energy to explain myself to someone new—why I couldn’t come, why I was late, why I couldn’t text back. 

Friendships had become something I squeezed into the gaps of an already full life. So I drew a line: no new friends. That was the rule. Not because I didn’t like people, but because I was stretched too thin. My world had shrunk into something small and sacred—sleepless nights, endless feedings, a blur of daycare drop-offs and work deadlines. 

Then, along came Kara. 

One morning—after a challenging night of toddler bedtime antics and a cup of coffee that did nothing to revive me, I did something I swore I’d never do. I pulled her number from the crumpled piece of paper in my coat pocket and called to see if she wanted to go for a walk. I can’t explain why exactly. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the need for real conversation with someone who didn’t know me well enough to dive into anything too deep. Maybe it was the fact that she lived so close and seemed so easy going. I was half-hoping she’d say no, so I could retreat back into my little cocoon of familiarity.

But minutes later, we met at the corner, bundled against the morning chill, strollers in tow. At first, it was small talk—sleep schedules, snack negotiations, quick recipe exchanges. But by the time we had finished our walk, I knew she was going to be my friend. And not just the kind I waved to from the mailbox, but the kind who would show up on my doorstep unannounced, coffee in hand, on the days I needed it most.

Over the next 20 years, she’d step in like that time and time again—without being asked and without making a fuss. After my second child was born, she came over with a steaming cup of Starbucks and homemade mac n’ cheese, took one look at my droopy eyes and exhausted face, and sent me upstairs to nap. I woke up three hours later to a house that smelled like dinner, a baby peacefully napping, a basket full of folded laundry and clean dishes. I never expected to find a friend like that at this stage of my life—especially when I had intentionally kept my guard up.

She arrived effortlessly cool and unbothered, without judgment or drama—like the kind of person who just knows there’s room even when you don’t think there is. She had a killer sense of humor, and was helpful and easy to be around. I suppose that’s exactly what I needed at that point in my life. Someone who could find a bit of light in even the most exhausting moments—who’d walk into my house, pass the piles of laundry, the spit-up-stained sweatshirt, and make me feel like it was all just fine. I never had to pretend like I had it all together with Kara, that my house was perfect, that I was getting eight hours of sleep, that I was cooking healthy meals for my family every single night. With other friends, I sometimes felt the need to tidy myself up—emotionally, physically, even conversationally. But with Kara, I could just be. And in those early years, that was everything.

Back then, we were just two women walking the same block, figuring out who we were and where we were headed. She was living her dream, thriving as a contemporary artist and freelance designer. I was stuck in a finance job I loathed—secretly dreaming of cooking and writing for a living but had never taken any steps towards making it real. Her house was filled with a mix of carefully chosen paintings, large-scale photography, and color. Mine was still a work in progress, layered in shades of cream and tan, safe and neutral. She imagined a future with one child. I yearned for the chaos of a big family and a full house.

And yet, in all the ways that mattered, our lives grew together. Sometimes, in waves of parallel experiences, seasons when we walked in step, when motherhood felt overwhelming, and careers felt uncertain. And then there were times when life pulled us in different directions—when one of us was weighed down by health scares, the demands of caring for aging parents, or just trying to keep up with everything on our plate. And in those moments, the other would step in—not to fix everything, but to offer support in whatever small way she could.

It’s hard to sum up a friendship like that. But for my 40th birthday, Kara gave me something that came pretty close.

She made me a painting—a piece she’d been working on for months. She had friends and family write memories and small sentiments on a large, blank canvas. Then she took it home and began layering over it— adding color, texture, letting it build over time. It’s been hanging on my living room wall for the last decade. Some of the writing still peeks through in places. Others are completely buried underneath. It’s exactly how our friendship grew—unexpectedly, layer by layer. What’s on the surface is only part of the story. The real beauty is everything underneath.

While in the throes of early motherhood, when I was yearning for a creative outlet, a reprieve from a job that had grown stagnant with little room for growth, I was looking for ways to enrich my life beyond the daily demands of parenting two young children. I approached Kara about starting a new venture. It was 2010, when blogs were cool and social media was beginning to shape the way we shared stories. One night, after sharing a plate of curly fries and glasses of cheap Chardonnay at a neighborhood restaurant, we decided to start a blog—a space that would blend food, writing, art, and design. And after winning a national blog award two years later, we started offering food and art nights at a local art gallery. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was thriving, professionally, and I was doing it beside a new friend—one that had become a best friend in so many ways and for so many reasons. 

Even when Kara moved across the country—then back home, then away again, we never lost our place. Life always found a way of pulling us back together. When she suggested bringing me on board at the company she was working for—in a marketing and writing role that felt worlds away from the job that had left me drained, frantic, and stuck for nearly two decades, I didn’t hesitate. 

“You’d be perfect for this job,” she said confidently.

I let out a deep breath, but she didn’t hesitate. “Just say yes!”

And so, I did.

For five years, we worked on projects side-by-side, blending our skills and ideas. Work trips brought us to tiny ski towns in West Virginia, late-night walks through New York in search of the perfect slice, long stretches of California highway, restaurants tucked-away in old neighborhoods with mismatched chairs and menus scribbled on chalkboards. She introduced me to prosecco and made me fall in love with thrifting and salted edamame. 

Years later, we would learn that Kara’s ancestors had once made a life in the small oceanside community of River John in rural Nova Scotia where my husband and I built our home. It was one of those strange moments you don’t recognize as fate until you’re looking back. And all of a sudden, it didn’t feel crazy that the woman who had become like a sister, was rooted in the same soil I was building my own life. 

I like to think that some people are meant to find you no matter what, but I often wonder what might have happened that day at the bris if Jill hadn’t fainted, if Kara hadn’t run over with a glass of water, if I hadn’t picked up the phone and asked her to go for a walk, if I hadn’t said yes to a new friend because I felt too old and too tired and too set in my ways. I would have missed out on a rare kind of friendship.

Our daughters are now 21 years old, and like Kara and me, they live on opposite coasts. They didn’t grow up side by side the way we had hoped, but somehow, distance never seemed to matter. They visit when they can, texting and calling in between. Their friendship, much like ours, is built on something steady—years of understanding each other in a way that doesn’t require constant presence to stay intact. 

In a couple of months, I’m turning 50—a milestone I’m still wrapping my head around. Kara is flying in from Edmonton, nearly five thousand kilometers away. She’s already claimed responsibility for my party playlist, and I know, without a doubt, she’ll get it just right. We’ll spend a few slow days in River John—coffee on the deck, beach walks, being in the same place at the same time. 

Kara made me open to the idea that you’re never too old to make new friends, to let new people in, to invest in relationships that feel right. Friendships don’t always arrive at the perfect time. Sometimes, they march in when life feels too full, when you’re least expecting them, when it would be easier to say not now. But the ones that matter, the ones built with intention and care, are the ones that last forever. 

---

Want our stories delivered to you? Sign up for our newsletter, then follow us on Instagram, Threads, and Facebook for regular updates and a lot of other silliness.