When the Thread Doesn’t Unravel
On the rare kind of friendship that survives distance, time, and change
“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”
Elbert HubbardI have a friend named Tracy. I met her in elementary school, which means I've known her for thirty years.
We met on bus 316. Same neighborhood, same schools, the kind of friendship that started because we were in the same place at the same time. I was about your age now, Lyla. It’s wild to think that the friendships you're making right now could last into your 40s and probably far beyond.
That proximity lasted through elementary, middle, and high school. Then I left for college, and the proximity ended. But the friendship didn't.
Most of my friendships have been proximity-based. The people I saw in class, at work, in the same city at the same time. When I moved from Garland to Austin, then to Chicago, and now Dallas, those friendships mostly faded. Not out of malice or neglect, but because life fills in the gaps with new routines and new faces. If you don't intentionally make time, the thread just unravels.
But Tracy is different. We never went to the same college. Despite her living all over the country, we never lived in the same place again. She never lived in Chicago. She doesn't live in Dallas now. We don't even talk on the phone anymore—just text a handful of times throughout the year. Our friendship needs have changed. We both have our own families now. We've both found our own ways to belong in our own worlds.
And yet, she's still here, or at least there. Still choosing to stay connected despite not needing to. Because that's the thing: normally, this is when friendships fade completely. Not because anything happened, but because our lives aren't connected enough to force us to stay in touch. But we're still making the effort. That's the choice part. That's what makes it rare.
I remember one night early on in Chicago. I'd gone to a work event in Wrigleyville, trying to do the thing you're supposed to do when you move somewhere new, where you show up and network and act like you belong. But I didn't belong yet. I didn't even know the streets or the intersections. I was walking back alone, slightly drunk in that way where your guard drops and the reality hits harder than you'd like—the loneliness of being in a new city with no real friends yet. So I called Tracy.
I don't remember what we talked about. I wish I could. But I remember what it felt like after I hung up: despite actually being alone on that street, I wasn't alone. Despite having no friends in Chicago, I had really great friends. She was a thousand miles away, but calling her was like calling comfort. Not just someone I knew, but someone who made me feel like I belonged, even when I didn't belong anywhere yet.
Tracy knows my humor. The humor you know now, Lyla, but that I let so few people see. The kind that goes too far, that lingers too long, that draws rejection. The kind that can push people away.
But she never got pushed away.
Once, years ago, she called me out. "Sometimes you act like you're slow, but I know you're not. What’s the deal?"
It was the kind of thing that could've stung. But the way she said it (direct, curious, not mean) made me realize she wasn't annoyed. She was seeing me and simultaneously teaching me about myself.
She's one of the first people who wasn’t a family member who saw exactly who I was.
Tracy has seen me at my most awkward. The teenage years when I didn't know how to be a person yet. The drunk calls from Chicago. The humor that goes too far. When I was young, one April Fools, I "pranked" her by saying I'd been in a bad car accident. She was genuinely concerned, as good friends are, and I let her stay concerned for just a bit too long before telling her the truth. It was harmless in the long run, but completely unnecessary and emotionally distressing when it didn't need to be. But she forgave me, and now we laugh about it. More importantly, she just kept showing up.
And here's what I've learned: someone almost always gives more in a friendship. Tracy has given more. She's the one who kept reaching out when I got caught up in new places and new people. She's the one who made the effort when it would've been easier to let the thread unravel.
I'm grateful for it.
It's been amazing to watch you interact with Tracy's kids, Lyla. You want to join when she’s in town, and we meet up. Her kids have no reason to show interest in you—they only see you every few years—but they do. They ask you questions. They engage like they know you well. There's something natural there, something comforting that her kids seem to have inherited from her.
The fact that the care we have for each other has grown to include care for each other's families? That's beautiful to me. That's what happens when a friendship lasts long enough: it multiplies.
Tracy has this way of making people feel safe. Her kids have it too. And watching you experience that same comfort I felt on that Chicago street reminds me why friendships like this matter.
Friendships like this are rare, Lyla. The kind where someone chooses you when they don't have to. Where distance doesn't matter because the connection does. Where you can be fully yourself (the weird, too-much, slightly embarrassing parts) and still feel safe.
Don't be afraid or angry if you need to give more in a friendship. And be incredibly grateful if the other person is giving more.
If you find someone like that, someone who chooses you when they don't have to, who sees all of you and doesn't leave, hold on to them. That's the rare thing. That's the gift.
And if you can be that person for someone else? Be that person.
Because I think about that walk in Chicago sometimes. How alone I felt, and how not-alone I felt at the same time. How Tracy picked up the phone even though she was a thousand miles away. How she's been picking up the phone, in one way or another, for thirty years.
Even now, when we only text a few times a year, she's still choosing to stay. And I'm still grateful.