When the Thread Doesn’t Unravel

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”

Elbert Hubbard

I 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.

The Quiet Work of Noticing

“To acquire knowledge, one must study;
but to acquire wisdom, one must observe.”

Marilyn vos Savant

The best leaders I know aren't the ones with all the answers. They're the ones asking better questions.

This past week, I sat at a leadership conference listening to the keynote speaker talk about "observational leadership": the practice of choosing curiosity over certainty. Of really looking outward. Of noticing the unspoken things that quietly shape everything. It's a deceptively simple idea. But it landed hard.

Because a year ago, I unintentionally decided to test this on myself. Not in a meeting or a strategy session, but in the most vulnerable place I could think of: a blank page.

I started writing. Every single week. Not for an audience, not for a deadline. Just to see what I'd notice if I actually made space to observe.

Here's what I learned: Most of what I notice, someone else has noticed too. That used to bother me. I wanted to be original, to say something that would shift perspectives or change minds. I know I'm not the smartest or most creative, so why try to write what is probably already better said by someone else?

But over this past year, I realized: the point isn't to be the first or the best. The point is to be honest. To trust that if something makes sense to me, it might make sense to someone else who's been waiting to hear it in just this way.

There's a kind of quiet leadership in that. Not the kind that announces itself, but the kind that listens, notices, and gives voice to what's been overlooked.

Some days I write things I'll never show anyone. Some days it's just a way to clear my mind so I can see what's actually happening around me: on my team, with clients, in the patterns I'd otherwise miss.

This morning I wrote about "limitless support." The idea that we all need support, but that support looks different for different people, and individual needs change. Not just what they need to feel supported, but how they need to be supported. What one person experiences as care, another might experience as suffocation. Here's what writing it helped me see: when you help someone understand what support looks like for them, they start to understand what support looks like for those around them. That's how support becomes limitless. It can't be through scale or systems alone, but also through people learning to truly see each other. It's a reminder that systems and efficiency can't solve everything. Some things require attention. Observation. Care.

I wouldn't have noticed that without making space to write. Without choosing to observe instead of just reacting. And that's been the pattern all year: small noticings that add up. They become a record of what I've learned and who I'm becoming as a leader.

Observational leadership starts with observing yourself. With making space even when you're not sure what will fill it. With choosing curiosity over certainty.

And trusting that in the act of noticing—really noticing—you're doing something that matters.

Even if it's just for you.

Especially if it's just for you.

Naming the Darkness

“When you can’t look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark.”

Unknown

At the end of 2023, I thought about killing myself. The thoughts lasted about a month.

If you're reading this and worried about me, I'm okay now. I'm far past that month. I'm writing this because the silence around this topic is more dangerous than the discomfort of naming it. I wrestled with whether to write this at all. Not because I feel too vulnerable, but because this subject is somehow taboo. Everyone wants people to be supported, but we're afraid to just say it. Say the thing that is real. We're afraid people will think we're weak, or worry about us when we've already recovered. Because. Because. Because.

But that tension, that fear of naming it, is exactly what makes you not want to get support when you're going through it.

So I'm saying it. I thought about ending my life. And I want you to know, Lyla, that if you ever get to that place, you can say it too. To me. To your mom. To someone. You can name the darkness.

It was a perfect storm. Work stress at a breaking point with client losses, internal politics, lack of progress, and feeling completely alone in carrying everyone else's weight. I'd just let someone go at work, a decision that gutted me, and then they sued me personally for racial discrimination. The irony was cruel. I'd fought for them, tried to keep them, advocated for diversity on our DEI council. And this person knew the agency's history and it felt like extortion. Someone I thought was a friend was trying to destroy the company, and me personally, with lies for personal gain.

My therapist, who I'd finally started opening up to after never having been to therapy in my life, quit being my therapist when her child was born. Completely understandable. And also exactly what I'd feared: that I'd let myself be vulnerable, start to rely on someone to help me work through things, and they'd just leave.

At home, your mom was dealing with her own anxiety. I couldn't fully share what I was going through because talking to her about my despair meant I'd then need to support her anxiety about my despair. I was drowning, but I couldn't ask her to pull me up because she was trying to keep her own head above water.

I felt alone in carrying responsibilities that everyone around me either couldn't or shouldn't be doing. Things I was doing for them. So I felt alone in that.

Suddenly, everything I'd tried to build felt like it was crumbling, and I was failing on every front. Worse, it felt like people wanted me to fail. Maybe that was paranoia, maybe not, but it was real to me.

So I did what you're supposed to do. I reached out.

My brother, who I rarely have deep conversations with, was struggling too. When I tried to open up, his response was, "Your job is to take care of me." Not the other way around. It hurt, but I understood. He needed support, and I wasn't giving it.

Next, my sister. She's my go-to for real talk. But when I shared what my brother said, she said, "I don't feel any obligation to take care of you. That's not how I think." I didn't open up to her after that.

Finally, my closest friend. I asked if he'd ever struggled, how he got through it. "I just deal with it," he said. Old school, sure, but honest. Later, when I hinted at how bad things were, his check-in was a joke: "Have you killed yourself yet?" I said, "Not yet." That was it.

I had my lifevests—my siblings, my closest friend. But I couldn't inflate my vest because they didn't have anything to give in that moment.

Looking back now, I don't think any of them knew how bad of a place I was in. When you're in darkness, you think you're being clear, but you're probably not. You think you're screaming for help, but it comes out as a whisper. And all of them were dealing with their own struggles. It wasn't that they didn't want to help or wouldn't give me what I needed. They just didn't have it to give. They were drowning too.

But in that moment, it felt like rejection. And it made everything so much worse.

What pulled me through wasn't one thing. It was a combination of defiance and not wanting someone else to "win" or control my life. It was spite, honestly. Still a negative emotion, but it moved me away from despair. I eventually got to the holidays, where I always feel a bit more loved. I got past the withdrawal of not having a therapist and reset how I use outlets to work through emotions. I started talking to Rachel again, letting her back in even though it was complicated.

Time passed. The lawsuit was resolved. I had written and verbal evidence of how I'd supported this person, character witnesses showing how baseless the claims were. But it wasn't really about winning the case. It was about surviving the betrayal.

Here's what I wish I'd known when I was in it: nothing that felt so incredibly heavy at that time really mattered that much. I don't say that to diminish it, because at that time it weighed so much on me. But I should have thought about quitting my job far before suicide. Or taking a couple of weeks off. I should have found another therapist before that consideration, despite my fear of being deprioritized again. I should have considered so many other things.

But your mind goes dark when you lose hope. It can't see the options that are right in front of you.

The things that felt like they required my life actually just required me to let go of other things. My job. My pride. My need to carry everyone else's weight. Those were the things that needed to end, not me.

I heard someone say once that life both happens to you, but also flows through you. When you're in that dark place, life is only happening TO you. It's crushing you. Overwhelming you. All-consuming. What you need is someone to help you get to the second part, where life flows through you again. Where you can breathe.

If you ever find yourself in that place, Lyla, here's what I want you to know:

Call me. Text me. Write me. Just let me be there. I would get in my car, go to the airport, do whatever I needed to do to simply be there with you and hold you. I wouldn't let you feel alone. I would just hold you.

It won't be a burden on me. It will be an honor that you trust me to help you.

I'm not saying I'm skilled or trained to navigate every situation. Every situation is different, so I almost certainly won't know exactly what you're going through. But I have experience navigating darkness now. And it won't be too much for me. It will be a relief that you're seeking support.

If you reach out to someone and they can't help you, that's not rejection. They might be drowning too. They might not have the skillset or capacity to navigate that conversation. Keep reaching. Try someone else. Try me. Try your mom. Keep reaching until someone catches you.

Let go of everything else if you need to. Your job, your responsibilities, your pride, whatever is weighing you down. I'll support you in that. But never let go of yourself.

There are always more options than your dark mind can see in that moment.

You are not alone. Even when it feels like you are.

And you can always, always name the darkness. Because the silence is more dangerous than the fear of saying it out loud.

I love you. And I'm here.