A Love Letter to My Friends
I had therapy today.
It had been about a month since my last appointment, which meant I had a lot to catch my therapist up on.
One of the biggest updates was JD.
My rescue dog had been kicked out of my apartment.
Friends had stepped in to care for him while I figured out what came next.
I barely made it through the sentence before I started crying.
That happens a lot these days.
We talked about grief.
About how much I had lost this year.
About how loss has a way of piling itself on top of loss until even one more thing feels impossible to carry.
Then I started telling her about my friends.
About Kevin making the background on his phone a picture of JD.
About Kathleen keeping a jar in her pantry labeled “JD’s Peanut Butter.”
They weren’t just watching my dog.
They were loving him.
Which, somehow…
felt like another way of loving me.
As I talked, I found myself crying even harder.
Not because of everything I had lost.
Because of everything I had been given.
I started listing people.
The ones who brought me meals because they knew I’d forget to eat.
The ones who guarded my office door when I couldn’t handle one more conversation.
The ones who quietly packed my things and sent me home early.
The ones who searched for apartments with me.
Moved boxes.
Walked beside me.
Prayed beside me.
Made me laugh when laughing felt impossible.
Reminded me who I was when I’d forgotten.
Loved my dog like he belonged to them.
Loved me like I belonged to them.
At one point I laughed through my tears and said,
“I’m sorry…this has just become my love letter to them.”
My therapist smiled.
“No,” she said.
“This is their love letter to you.”
I don’t know that anyone has ever said anything truer to me.
Because that’s exactly what it was.
Not words written on paper.
Not a birthday card.
Not a text message.
A love letter written through ordinary Tuesdays.
Through casseroles.
Through prayers.
Through moving boxes.
Through peanut butter jars with a dog’s name written across the front.
Through people showing up over…
and over…
and over again.
I don’t even think they knew they were writing it.
That’s the beautiful thing about real love.
It rarely announces itself.
It just keeps arriving.
One meal.
One phone call.
One hug.
One walk.
One ordinary act of kindness at a time.
Pain has a way of making us the main character in our own story.
I know it did for me.
There were seasons when my own hurt filled every corner of my vision.
Sometimes that’s what surviving requires.
But healing…
Healing slowly widened my view again.
And when it did, I stopped noticing only my own pain.
I started noticing everyone who had quietly been carrying pieces of it with me.
People often tell me how well I’ve handled this season.
They give me credit for healing.
For being resilient.
For showing up.
But the truth is…
I don’t think this healing belongs to me alone.
Yes, I’ve done the work.
I’ve gone to therapy.
I’ve cried.
I’ve prayed.
I’ve written.
I’ve stayed.
But none of that happened in isolation.
It happened because I was surrounded by people who refused to let me carry it alone.
Maybe that’s what love actually is.
Not grand declarations.
Not dramatic moments.
Not perfect words.
Maybe love is simply showing up…
again tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next.
Long enough for someone else to remember who they are.
I thought I understood friendship before this year.
I didn’t.
I loved my friends before.
I know that.
But I didn’t understand the depth of their love until I had to lean on it.
Until I watched them choose me.
Every single day.
Without keeping score.
Without asking for anything back.
Without making it feel like a burden.
I thought this essay was going to be my love letter to them.
Maybe my therapist was right.
Maybe this whole year…
has been their love letter to me.
