I want to be your friend.

I just never learned how.

Hi. I’m Katie. This newsletter is a place for the woo curious to explore spirituality, culture, and humanity in an intersectional way. Here’s what I’m thinking about this week…

When I was in the third grade, a new girl moved to my small, rural school. Like everyone else in my class of sixty, I was immediately obsessed: in our world, getting a new kid was A Big Deal. The next most exciting thing I could think of was the monthly visit from our school counselor, Mrs. Hedrick, AKA the Pickle Lady, who plied us with pickles and tips on mindfulness (an admittedly weird combo, but I love pickles, so I was sold).

Shout out to my mom, who dug up this yearbook picture of the inimitable Pickle Lady!

The new girl’s name was Kristan (with an A), and I automatically thought she was cool because her last name had TWO capital letters in it. My plain Jane last name, Martin, was about as exciting as American cheese on white bread; hers was like thinly-sliced prosciutto on a French baguette. I wanted nothing more than to be Kristan’s friend—maybe her inherent coolness would rub off on me, a gap-toothed, nerdy girl who read Boxcar Children books and raised her hand a little too fast in class.

So when she slid into the seat next to mine later that day in the cafeteria, I sat up a little straighter and winged a prayer up to whoever was listening that she would like me. What happened next plays like a movie in my mind, each frame clearer than the last.

Kristan pulled out a Ziploc baggie filled with cauliflower and a container of ranch dressing and asked me if I liked veggies and dip. Without hesitation, I said that I did, despite the fact that I had never in my life eaten raw cauliflower. She proceeded to coat a little floret in the ranch and held it out to me, an ancient ritual known to all third graders. If someone shares their lunch with you, you’re friends. End of story. This was my chance.

I took the cauliflower and bit into it. As I chewed, I learned something important: I don’t like cauliflower. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it. Instead, I pasted a grin on my face and forced myself to move my jaw and turn that awful little albino tree into pasty mush that I slowly, painfully swallowed as Kristan watched.

When she asked again if I liked it, I lied and told her that I did. I had it in my third grade head that telling her otherwise would render our burgeoning friendship dead in the water. But I learned something else that day: I’m an awful liar, and I can’t hide the truth once it marches across my face. Kristan saw right through me, and she never sat next to me again.

To this day, I still don’t like cauliflower.

For most of my life, I have struggled to make and keep friendships. As evidenced by The Cauliflower Incident, I saw friendship as a test, one where I had to prove myself worthy of being liked. But despite knowing my way around a standardized test with a number 2 pencil like a pro, friendship was one test that I felt like I failed again and again.

I wasn’t a loner. Throughout high school, I was what I call a “appetizer friend,” or someone who filled in the gaps to tide you over before the main course arrived. I was good for group projects, sitting next to on the bus on the way to track meets, and for borrowing notes. But I wasn’t the one you called up to go prom dress shopping or the one who sat shotgun with a case of wine coolers while you drove to a party in someone’s garage. I never even knew where the parties were.

I was also pretty useful when it came to playing the Ha Ha game. I have fond memories of these ladies, but our friendship didn’t last after high school.

Not much changed in college. During my freshman year, I quickly fell in with the girls who were my suitemates, and for a moment, I thought that I would be able to rewrite the narrative around friendship. But a series of fights and the constant shifting of the Top 8 standings on Myspace left me anxious and emptier than ever. The next year, I settled in with a much safer roommate who watched Gilmore Girls religiously and read the Bible. Eventually, we moved off campus and into an apartment with a third girl.

Despite living together for the better part of three years, my two roommates and I were like planets that just happened to orbit past each other every so often, not the tightly-knit constellations of girls that I saw traipsing around campus with linked arms and matching Ugg boots.

The only thing that connected the three of us was our shared frustration with a cat one of my roommates had brought home, Sasha, who liked to launch herself at the ankles and faces of anyone in her path. Beyond that, we were strangers who shared an address for a time. Both of my former roommates have since gotten married. Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t in either of their weddings.

In fact, I have only stood up in two weddings, and I was related to both of the brides. I can’t relate to the old adage, “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” Contrary to popular opinion, I would give anything to have a closet bursting with ugly and expensive dresses that I had only worn once. At least I’d have proof that I was worthy of friendship.

Friendship was an act that seemed so effortless to the other women who crowded my social media feeds with regular posts about girls’ nights and bachelorette trips. Despite believing myself to be an intelligent, funny and caring woman who bakes a mean carrot cake and will happily leave the fitting room to go find you another size during a shopping trip, I hadn’t found my people. As time marched on and I reckoned with the twilight years of my early 30s, I began to worry that I wouldn’t.

I don’t mean to make it sound as if I don’t have any friends—I have a rotating cast of folks that I spend time with every so often. I exchange memes with my coworker Liz and grab Mexican food with Ashley. Lauren comes to my barre classes, and I pick up packages from Daniel’s front porch while he’s traveling.

But despite these relationships, I still felt like I was pressing my nose up against a glass window, unable to do anything but watch as other people formed the close connections that I craved. In my darkest moments, I wondered if friendship was a movie that I was fated to simply watch but never experience.

So, a few weeks ago, when not one but TWO people I had casually exchanged Instagram messages with asked me if I wanted to hang out, I immediately said yes. It was my chance to redo the Cauliflower Incident and get it right this time. As an anxious person, I couldn’t have imagined a better scenario: someone else had initiated, and because of that, it was safe to say that they already thought I was cool and worth talking to.

I went on two very lovely friend dates. On the first, I swapped tarot decks and thoughts about life with an astrology expert over drinks at the Fortune Teller Bar here in St. Louis. On the second, I drank chai with a fellow yoga teacher and talked about the weirdly specific trauma of growing up in the fundamentalist church.

Both of my Friend First Dates ended with earnest promises to hang out again soon, but aside from a few story reactions on Instagram, I haven’t seen either of these people again. I am left to replay the interactions, frame by frame, and wonder where I went wrong. Where I had chewed the cauliflower, so to speak. As I pick apart what has transpired, the old feelings of inadequacy begin to creep in. I pick up my phone and start to compose a message, asking to hang out again.

But something always stops me from pressing send. I put down the phone. I decide that maybe I’m not meant to have deep friendships and move on.

Here’s the deal. I want to be your friend. I just don’t know how.

My barriers to friendship are, more often than not, self-imposed. I put friendship on a pedestal, expecting it to have a rocket-like ascent to lifelong friend status after one hangout session…yet I do little to help it launch. I neglect the friends I have as I chase a pipe dream of some idealized friendship that’s equal parts sleepover secrets and built-in brunch dates. I fear failure and being told that I’m not cool enough so strongly that I come across as disinterested, even when I want nothing more than to hang out. Even when I do forge a connection with someone, when it comes time to take things to the next level, I can’t.

There’s more. I cloak myself with busyness to lower the amount of nights that I sit alone in my apartment, scrolling Reddit and clicking through Instagram stories of other people attending theme parties and making charcuterie boards to share. I make blanket statements about wanting to do fun things with people on my own Instagram stories, but even when others respond and tell me that they’d love to accompany me, I doubt their intentions and never make solid plans.

At the ripe old age of almost-34, I am recognizing that I have a deep, deep friendship wound. Each time I knock down one wall that I’ve put up, another one appears. Underneath the chipper Instagram posts and funny jokes, I have a deep-seated belief that I am still that gawky, ridiculous girl who tried to eat a vegetable to impress someone else, believing that she had nothing else of interest to offer.

I somehow expect my friendships to be effortless, serendipitous, and entirely natural. Any need to try makes me balk—because past experience has taught me that trying means that I’m chewing the cauliflower and not being my authentic self.

Writing all of this out makes me feel so, so foolish: of course friendships require work. Like it or not, finding meaningful friendship as an adult does necessitate some intentionality and, yes, choreography on my part to help it happen. When the universe sends a clear message (in my case, a literal DM) about friendship, it’s my job to reply. (I feel like I owe my long suffering guides an apology and a fruit basket or something).

As I inch closer to a major transition in my life, one that will force me to build new relationships, I know that now is the time for me to learn to see myself as worthy of friendships…and to be patient enough to recognize that it takes time to grow them.

If you’re wondering: Yes, I do want to be your friend. I’m working on figuring out how to say that in a way that feels authentic and honest…and the first step is saying something in the first place.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some hangout sessions to schedule.

Do you find it easy to make friends, or is it a challenge? What makes a lasting friendship? I’d love to hear any thoughts you have!

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✨Cards for Humanity: The Three of Cups✨

Whether you’re into tarot or not, here’s a few things to consider about this weird thing called life.

An intimate gathering. A bacchanalian portrayal of pleasure, shared by friends. The Three of Cups has all the trappings of a good party: dancing, drinks and fellowship with people that you like.

Three women raise their cups, which are of similar shape and size, in a gesture of celebration and solidarity. They toast their connection and the present moment, both of which are bursting with emotional potential. The bucolic backdrop of a veritable cornucopia of fruits and vegetables speaks of an abundant harvest of a thriving companionship.

There is a certain amount of vulnerability necessary to hoist one’s Cup, which represents our inner selves, and join it with another. I imagine that, in the next frame of this scene, these women would be drinking deeply from each other’s cups as they bare their souls in a jubilant manner.

Friendship is equal parts honesty and joy; not every moment must be emotionally heavy. At times, friendship is as simple as choosing to dance with a group of other people, even if it is for a brief moment. The Three of Cups reminds us that the happiness we feel when dancing is multiplied exponentially when we share it with others.

The unity of this card is significant; the women appear to be following a similar choreography, stepping lightly between the feet of another. Relationships, too, require a similar level of intentionality, where we choose to align our steps with other people. The lifted gaze of the dancers towards the raised cups indicates a focus on the emotions of the moment: being present with those we connect with is perhaps the most important element of a true friendship.

The clear, blue sky above is full of peace and connects to the throat chakra, reminding us to communicate openly and honestly with those we call friends. When you see the Three of Cups in a reading, it’s time to celebrate the beautiful community you are growing. Something worth toasting to.

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✨Prompts | The Three of Cups✨

Meditate. Journal. Pull some cards.

☀️ Where do I need to be more emotionally vulnerable in my relationships?

☀️ How can I be intentional about time spent with others?

☀️ What feels joyful about time spent in my community?

☀️ How can I celebrate those in my life who support me?

A sculpture to represent the Three of Cups.

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✨Weekly Mantra✨

Write it down. Say it out loud. Share it with a friend.

I see myself through the eyes of those who love me: someone worth celebrating.

Thanks for being here. Wishing you a week full of community, joy and opportunities to dance.

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