Don't always sign up with a friend

The second lesson

Some of our best friends left last week. Their visit from New York had been on the calendar for months. The day they arrived, Norah and Conor came upstairs chanting, “The Ongs are coming today! The Ongs are coming today!” We waited outside and greeted their car with open arms and squeals when they pulled up. 

Then, for three days, we felt our hearts settle into a rhythm of being known and knowing others. The kids stayed up way too late every night and ran around like a five-headed whirlwind of laughter and elbows and yelling and dirt. None of them have ever known the world without the others.  

I have barely known motherhood without Marilyn. She was my first real, true friend in New York. She walked into a toddler playtime with one-year-old Miles while newly two-year-old Norah was the only kid running around. We struck up an easy conversation that feels like it hasn’t stopped for ten years. I have never once left spending time with her feeling like it was enough. She’s the kind of friend who makes me want to step into more of who I am. 

Marilyn was the first friend I texted when I found out I was having a miscarriage, and then one of the first people who found out I was pregnant again with a little boy. We threw baby showers for each other and teamed up to throw them for others. We spent holidays together and have unfinished conversations hanging over almost every playground on the west side of Manhattan. Marilyn painted the Big Sky to Big Apple logo at the top of this Substack. She helped me gain the courage to return to school for an MFA. 

On a January day last year, after a two-hour belated birthday dinner, Marilyn and I walked home through Hell’s Kitchen, and I spoke out loud what I didn’t want to be true. “I think we might be moving to Utah.” We both slowed our pace, already trying to slow down time. My feet felt as if they were sinking into the pavement. Maybe the city would swallow me up and keep me forever with the friends I loved. I didn’t tell anyone else about the possibility of our move for months. I just needed Marilyn to hold it with me. Maybe I needed both of us to have the time to process not living in the same place anymore. 

Eventually, of course, we told everyone in our lives we would be moving. I also told people I had no plans of making new friends in Utah. We had collected people from Montana, Washington, and New York, and I didn’t see the need for any more. Plus, now we have a guest room in the middle of all these people, so I figured we would just have our friends come to us as often as possible. 

My plan is working. We have washed the guest sheets more than any others in our home this year. For our entire marriage, Brett and I have always had the next concert on the calendar. Now, we also have the next visitor booked in our guest room.

We moved into our house the week before school started. All our friends in New York were still enjoying long summer days when Norah and Conor had to start setting an alarm again. I know how lucky we are that our kids love school, but it’s still hard to love a place where you don’t know anyone. I was worried that being the new kids (and the new mom) could make for a bumpy start to the school year. 

Surprising no one that knows them, Norah and Conor jumped right in and both made friends quickly. Perhaps surprising people who know me, I did not. For several months, I could not bring myself even to want to make new friends. I was not interested. I did not learn names. I wore my Mets hat and sunglasses to school drop-off each day and stood on the edges of the playground with tears in my eyes. Then, I would go out for a solo trail run, come home to a quiet house, read or write for school, and wait for the bell to ring and for my kids to come home. 

In October, their school hosted a fall festival. The PTO transformed the playground into a carnival with bouncy houses, a costume catwalk, face painting, and food booths. Brett had to work that afternoon, so when Norah and Conor found their friends, I was left alone. I was grateful it was sunny enough to keep my sunglasses on because the tears in my eyes returned. I looked around and saw that everyone had their people. Kids ran around arm in arm with classmates. Moms hugged in greeting and dads stood side by side manning the bouncy castles. My phone buzzed with a message from friends in New York: Friday playground isn’t the same without you. Miss you guys!

I took a deep breath and decided I had to at least try. Our realtor had mentioned she knew someone who had kids at Norah & Conor’s school, so I texted her. “Any chance your friend might be at the fall fair right now?”

Within minutes, she reached out to both of us, and we found one another in the crowd. Meghan probably saw my sad eyes and gave me a big hug. The fair was winding down, and the kids were all exhausted and running on sugar fumes, so our conversation was exactly like every other conversation with kids running around—fragmented. But before we left, she said, “This place can be a lot. Do you want to grab coffee next week?” 

“I’d love to,” I said. I walked home feeling just a tiny bit better about life in Utah. 

A few days later, I got a promotional email from Salt Lake Running Company advertising their fall running groups. A women’s group had an info session in two weeks. They would meet every Tuesday and Thursday at 9 a.m., the exact time I had been running weekly for years. Too bad I hate running with other people, I thought and deleted the email. 

The following day, I slid a plate of sour cream pancakes across the kitchen island to Norah. “Did you still want to sign up for basketball?” I asked her. She nodded. 

“Should I do it today, or do you want to check to see if any of your friends are doing it first?”

She swallowed a bite of pancake. She stabbed another piece with her fork and said, “ I don’t think you should sign up for things with friends. Then you just rely on them and don’t ever meet new people. You can sign me up today. I’ll make new friends if I don’t know anyone.”

My heart sank in conviction and then soared with pride. How did my ten-year-old know this? I wasn’t setting that example. 

When I met Meghan for coffee a few days later, the conversation was easy. By the end of our time together, we had decided to start a book club. I told her I didn’t know many people, but our realtor had already planned a wine night for a few other women. We decided to float the idea to them, and Meghan invited a few other friends. We’d kick it off in January with Tom Lake by Ann Patchett. 

Norah’s words stayed front of mind. “Don’t wait for a friend to sign up. Just do the things you want to do and meet new people.” When I got home from coffee that day, I pulled up the trash items in my email, scrolling through until I found the one from the running company. The women’s running club would start in January. I put the information session on my calendar.

In December, I bought a copy of Tom Lake. We had also started attending a church near our house. We had short conversations with a few people but hadn’t really gotten to know anyone yet. At the back of the bulletin, a women’s book club was advertised. Their January book was Tom Lake, and they would be meeting just a few days after the book club I had started with Meghan. I put that on the calendar as well. 

January would be my month. We still had visitors coming in a steady stream, but after four months of pretty lonely weekdays, I was ready for a change. 

On a cold Tuesday morning, I put my running gear on, ready to head out the door after the kids left for school. The information session was at 9:00, so if I was going to go, I needed to leave right after Norah and Conor walked out the door. I made excuses in my mind while I made breakfast, packed lunches, and reminded Norah and Conor to get a hat and mittens from the hall closet. I had almost convinced myself not to go when they walked out the door. 

Then, as they were about to cross the street, almost involuntarily, I shouted, “Hey Norah, ask me how running group went when you get home today.” I needed the accountability. I knew I wouldn’t go if no one knew I had planned to. 

She flashed me a thumbs-up and grabbed Conor’s hand to usher him across the street. 

I plugged the meeting spot into Google Maps and gave myself a pep talk the whole way. I pulled into the parking lot where about ten women stood in a circle. Aimee, the coach, greeted me with a big smile when I exited my car. “Welcome!” she said. “It’s so fun to have new people join us! This is a really great group.”

She explained the route for the day. After a few warm-up drills, we got started. I chatted with a few women during the 45-minute run but mostly ran alone. I felt like my friendship muscles were atrophied. I would need more time before jumping into longer conversations again. I went back on Thursday, and the next week, and the next. I’ve been running with these women for six months now. I’ll still do a solo run on the weekend, but it turns out this extrovert does like running with other people. 

The Friday after my first running group, I plugged the address of the woman hosting the church book club into Google Maps. I entered a cozy home full of women already in conversation with one another. I recognized a few from the couple of Sundays we had attended church, but I didn’t know anyone’s name. Someone offered me a glass of wine and a seat. I stayed for almost three hours. These women were thoughtful, smart, good at listening and laughing. 

I have learned their names and parts of their stories. They have learned mine. I’ve only missed one month since January. We’re discussing East of Eden this Friday.  

As for that original book club with Meghan, they are all starting to become dear friends. Last night, Carly and I went to dinner before seeing Ben Platt at the Eccles Theater. Next week, we’re discussing The Berry Pickers at our house and then all of the husbands and kids are coming over for a barbecue.

I’m not going to replace Marilyn or any of our other friends we still love so deeply back in New York. I hope I never stop needing to wash the sheets in our guest room. The hardest part about leaving New York was the people we left behind

. It took me half a year to realize that the people are the best part of Utah, too. 

My first lesson was courtesy of my son. My second is courtesy of my daughter.

Lesson #2: Don’t wait for a friend to do something new. Just go alone. You’ll meet someone great once you get there.