It’s well understood in neuroscience that certain parts of the brain can hold on to moments as if they’re frozen in time — shaped by trauma, emotional imprint, or deep connection. These “time‑capsule” parts of us are often activated through a somatic response: the body remembering something before the mind has a chance to catch up.
Sometimes it’s triggered by something tender and familiar — the smell of a grandmother’s cooking, the unmistakable blend of crayons, washable paint, and old books in a kindergarten classroom, or even the subtle shift in the air that tells you the seasons are changing. These sensory cues can transport us instantly, reminding us of experiences that shaped us long before we had the language to explain them. To me – these feelings ae my oldest friends.
It’s interesting that the brain is also plastic. In many ways — and for the sake of our own evolution — we are malleable. The way we see the world, process emotions, and connect to others is meant to change over time. That is a gift, just as our ability to examine ourselves, for better or worse, is a gift.
We can grow. We can change. We can find ourselves drawn to new experiences and new people if we’re brave enough to allow it. This fluidity of self — this capacity to revise, expand, and reimagine who we are — is the quiet magic that makes new friendships possible.
This week is about honoring the newer friendships that have become an essential part of my womanhood. It’s a love note to them, but also a celebration of my own capacity — my ability to expand, to welcome, to be shaped by people I didn’t yet know I needed.
When I watch my ten‑year‑old daughter with her friends, I’m reminded that we are all seeking the same thing. Even though I am older, a (tiny) bit wiser, and…ahem.. a touch greyer, her young friendships mirror my own. They give her space to play, reflect, laugh, cry, and grow in community with her little tribe. And in their own way, my friendships do the same for me.
I write to process, and just as naturally, I pick up my phone and open our group chat to do the same. Sometimes I cry alone to cleanse; often, I cry to them so I can be held. We are a symphony of exchanged memes, evenings gathered around a kitchen counter in our finest sweatpants, hours of steady empathy and the occasional dose of tough love. They are where I go when I have something to share — without fear of judgment, projection, or urgency to wrap up my thoughts. They are my soft landing and my sounding board, the place where I can arrive exactly as I am.
What I feel for my oldest friend is something closer to magic than love. If nostalgia had a color, it would shimmer — swirls of jewel‑toned glitter suspended in time.
And in a similar way, what I feel for the friendships of my womanhood is rooted in love, but also in the bravery it takes to fall into someone with trust, transparency, and a renewed understanding of what it means to grow up together. These friendships are not built on history alone, but on the courage to let ourselves be seen again and again, even as we evolve.