The Pillars That Are: Female Friendships

I never had a sister growing up.

My mom didn’t either.

But my mother had girlfriends.

So many girlfriends.

Growing up, I watched this woman talk to anyone and everyone. She could strike up a conversation with practically anyone unfortunate or fortunate enough to be standing within her vicinity. Grocery store. Sidewalk. Doctor’s office. It really didn’t matter.

I have apparently inherited a milder version of this trait. Although my daughter may eventually give her Grammy a run for her money or, more accurately, her mouth. But that is another story.

Today, I want to talk about the life-altering, tear-jerking, heart-bursting powerhouse that is female friendship and sisterhood .

And no, I don’t mean the high-school-frenemy variety. We have all survived enough of that.I mean the girls and women who somehow become our soul sisters.

The ones who know our stories. Who remember who we were before we became wives, mothers, physicians, professionals, caretakers and everything else life eventually asks us to become.

And the older I get, the more I realize just how important they are.

My mom made friends everywhere, but there were a handful who stood out throughout my childhood.

There was our sweetest neighbor, Mimi, with the gentlest and most empathetic of souls. The steadfast Dr. Betty. And Auntie Pem Yellowbird who stood at bedside the entire time during my brother’s birth when there was no other family around.

I was close to them and somehow they treated me like a bonus daughter.I still have a bracelet (pictured)  that auntie Pam gave to my mom. Then I brought it back with me to the US.

They shared food and recipes. Advice. Barbecues. Stories. Laughter. Ordinary afternoons.

Life eventually carried us away. After living abroad for a decade, we returned to Nepal, and somehow, one by one, we found them again.

Years had passed.

Lives had changed.

And yet the friendship was still there.

Betty even came to my wedding and was our guest of honor.

Maybe that was one of my earliest lessons I witnessed.

And then, without my realizing it, life began handing me my own sisters.

Over and over again.

In different countries.

Different seasons.

Different versions of myself.

There was Maria, my first best friend from the age of five. Then Jennifer whose family became the equivalent of my adoptive family. My sweet friends through those awkward middle school and high school years.They knew versions of me that barely exist anymore.

And yet perhaps that is part of the magic of old friendships. Someone out there remembers you before the degrees, the titles, the children, the responsibilities and the reinventions.

Then came medical school.

Oh, medical school.

My beautiful group of women; so different from one another and from me in so many ways   Yet somehow coexisting in imperfect, chaotic harmony.

We survived exams, heartbreak, failures, uncertainty, approximately one million cups of tea and coffee, endless snacks, and an impressive amount of gossiping during hours in which we absolutely should have been studying.

They also helped lead me toward the faith I have today.

We studied together.

We danced and Prayed together.

Cried together.

Laughed until we couldn’t breathe together.

And somehow became doctors along the way.

We prayed together and asked God for our unborn children years ago. Then were my “sisters” who curated the most beautiful Parisian-themed baby shower. I still have trinkets from that day tucked away from before I could have imagined that years later I would actually walk through Paris with that very baby girl.

Life is funny like that.

Then came residency. Fellowship. Training.

My sisters-in-training. A few of the most academically accomplished women in rheumatology that I was lucky to call my mentors at my first job out of fellowship to whom I am forever grateful . They helped me combat any imposter syndrome and thrive as a new attending.

The women who fed me, took care of me, called me over for every festival and celebration, and created little pieces of home during years when home sometimes felt very far away.

Years later, I actually did get a sister in my family Not by birth, but by marriage. My sister-in-law Molly, although “sister-in-law” has never quite felt like enough. She has truly been a sister to me: loving me, listening, laughing, supporting me and standing beside me through so many seasons of life. Somewhere along the way, the “in-law” part simply stopped mattering.

Then colleagues became girlfriends .

We walked beside one another through promotions, diagnoses, babies, marriages, career frustrations and all the strange turns adulthood quietly throws at us.

We survived by venting, boosting one another up, sneaking away for lunches and coffee breaks and reminding each other that we were human beings underneath the white coats and endless responsibilities.

And then there are the quieter ones.

The steadfast ones.

The women who may not call every day but somehow are simply there.

The ones who will pick up my children or drop them off without making me feel like I am asking too much. The ones who pack an extra meal because they know I probably haven’t eaten.Who remember my favorite food when they cook it.

Who think of me when they travel or go home to Nepal and bring something back because, somewhere along the way, I crossed their mind.

Those who plan your birthday weekend itinerary meticulously and make you a gourmet lunch so you can be a passenger princess for the road trip.The ones you go to concerts with and Singh and jump up and down like teenagers once again until your voice is hoarse and then spent two hours in a parking lot searching for the car afterwards.These become core memories.

The ones who have sat beside me through tears and heartbreak and listened to the same story for what must surely have been the thousandth time.

They listened without judgment.

They reminded me who I was when I temporarily forgot.

They told me to dream bigger.

Help me accountable.

They helped make connections for me.

Introduced me to people. Opened doors. Pulled me upward as I tried to do the same for other women.

There was no competition in it.

And maybe that is one of the most beautiful things women can do for one another.

Not merely stand beside each other but make room and say her name in rooms she has not entered yet.

Of course, those who send meme after meme and message you about every local event. They are always ready for a night out and dancing until the wee hours of the night and our feet blister!

Or a quiet dinner.

Or a really good iced coffee.

Or just an hour long phone call and praying back life into each other.

And somehow God keeps handing me more girlfriends.

Women I would never have expected to meet. Women from completely different chapters of my life. Women who arrive at precisely the moments when I seem to need them.

And the older I get, the more I understand what a gift that is.

We spend so much of our lives talking about romantic love.

Finding it. Keeping it. Losing it. Finding it again.

We write songs about romantic love. Movies revolve around it.

But perhaps we have made romantic love the greatest love story of a woman’s life when it was never meant to carry that entire weight.

Because long before and sometimes long after a romantic relationship enters our lives, there are women quietly loving us through it all.

And  perhaps our female friendships do something else for us too. They teach us what love is supposed to feel like.  In a sense, they provide and keep a standard of what romantic love should be. And what you deserve.

They show us consistency.Initiative

Reciprocity. Patience. Kindness.

Showing up.

They plan the outings and pick the best darn restaurants. hands-down.

They remind us what we bring to the table when we have somehow forgotten.

They hold up a mirror; not to our flaws, but to our worth.

And maybe that is why healthy female friendship doesn’t compete with romantic love.

It strengthens it.

Because our world is already full. There are already people at the table.There is already love in the room. Community and meaningful relationships matter deeply to our well-being. Even studies have pointed to this. I have lived it.

I started this story with a sentence I have probably said a hundred times throughout my life:

I never had a sister.

But the older I get, the less true it feels.

Because life gave me sisters over and over again.

Sometimes you are born into it.

Sometimes you marry into it.

And sometimes you simply choose each other.

I never had a sister.

Or at least, that’s what I used to think.

Somehow, God gave me so many.