You'd think making friends would get easier with age.

Maybe growing up isn't just learning who you are. Maybe it's finally learning who your people are.

When I was little, I lived in Pennsylvania.

I had what I think of as a pretty typical childhood.

I had a neighborhood full of kids.

We played outside all day.

We'd come home when we were hungry, eat something, and go right back outside.

Then we'd wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

We didn't care what anyone had.

We didn't care what anyone's house looked like.

We didn't care what clothes someone was wearing.

We didn't care about money.

We were just kids.

And I had friends.

Real friends.

At least, that's how I remember it.

Then I became a preteen.

And apparently, that's when my brain decided that friendship needed a financial qualification.

Suddenly, I cared about being friends with the kids who had everything.

Money.

Nice clothes.

Nice houses.

The stuff I didn't have.

My mom was a single mom, and she worked incredibly hard to take care of my brother and me.

We had what we needed.

We were loved.

We were taken care of.

But we didn't have what some of the other kids had.

And I thought that mattered.

I thought those were the people I wanted to be friends with.

Looking back now, I realize something:

I probably would have had a lot more friends if I had known what actually mattered.

But I didn't.

I was a kid.

I was comparing what I had to what everyone else had, and somehow I thought the things someone owned made them more valuable as a friend.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Then I Moved to New York

When I was 14, we moved to New York.

And just like that...

No friends.

The old ones were gone.

The new ones hadn't happened yet.

So I did what I had apparently learned to do.

I looked for the wrong kind of friends again.

I was still looking at what people had instead of who they were.

And then, when I was 16, I met Judy.

And everything changed.

My Judy

Judy was my friend for more than 25 years.

Twenty-five years.

She was there through the highs.

She was there through the lows.

She saw me at my best.

She saw me at my worst.

She knew my life.

And she didn't care what I had.

She cared about me.

That's it.

There was no keeping up.

No pretending.

No trying to impress each other.

No wondering whether I was good enough.

She was just my friend.

And I was hers.

I honestly have never had another friendship like that.

And I'm not sure I ever will.

Eventually, our lives went in different directions.

Judy became a grandmother.

I was trying to navigate being a single mom and doing everything I could to provide for my kids.

Life got busy.

Really busy.

And then work took over my life.

And when work takes up most of your waking hours, guess who you end up becoming friends with?

The people you work with.

Of course.

Because they're the people you see.

They're the people you talk to.

They're the people who know what's happening in your life.

They're the people you complain to about work.

They're the people you celebrate with when something goes right.

And somewhere along the way, my friendships became mostly about work.

I thought these were my people.

But now, as I'm getting ready to leave, I'm looking at some of those relationships differently.

And honestly?

It hurts.

Because I'm realizing that some of those friendships weren't really friendships.

Some people were friends with what I could do for them.

What I knew.

What I could fix.

What I could provide.

What I could make happen.

And when you stop being useful to someone, you sometimes find out very quickly what the relationship actually was.

That's a hard thing to learn.

There are a couple of people from work who I truly believe are my friends.

And I'm grateful for them.

But some of the others?

I'm leaving them behind.

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe that's part of starting over too.

I Miss Judy

I think about Judy more than I probably tell anyone.

I miss that friendship.

I miss having someone who knew me that well.

Someone I didn't have to explain myself to.

Someone who didn't care about my job title.

Someone who didn't care about what I owned.

Someone who didn't need anything from me.

She just wanted me.

And I cherished that.

I still do.

Maybe that's why friendship feels so complicated to me now.

Because I know what a real friendship feels like.

I've had it.

And once you've experienced that kind of friendship, it's hard to convince yourself that something less is enough.

Now I'm less than six weeks away from moving to Tennessee.

And I'm thinking about it.

Will I ever find that again?

Will I meet someone who doesn't care what I have?

Someone who doesn't care what kind of house I live in?

Someone who doesn't care what kind of car I drive?

Someone who doesn't care what my job title is?

Someone who isn't looking for something from me?

Someone I can just...

be me with?

Someone I can laugh with.

Cry with.

Be ridiculous with.

Be completely honest with.

Someone I don't have to pretend for.

Someone who can see me on a terrible day and not need me to make it look better.

Someone who can tell me I'm being an idiot when I'm being an idiot.

Because let's be honest...

I need that person.

Maybe Friendship Looks Different Now

When I was a kid, friendship was easy.

You went outside.

You found the other kids.

Someone said, "Want to play?"

And that was it.

Friendship.

No applications.

No interviews.

No background checks.

No wondering whether someone was only talking to you because they wanted something.

Just:

"Want to play?"

Wouldn't it be nice if it were still that easy?

Now I'm 52 and moving to a new state.

Apparently I'm going to have to figure out how adults make friends.

Maybe I'll meet someone walking Remmie.

Maybe I'll find a group.

Maybe I'll take a class.

Maybe I'll meet people through my daughter.

Maybe I'll actually try Bumble BFF.

Which still makes me laugh.

"Hi, I'm Cyndee. I'm 52. I'm moving to Tennessee and looking for a friend. Please don't be weird."

Maybe that's exactly what starting over is going to require.

Being willing to put myself out there.

Being willing to be vulnerable.

Being willing to risk being rejected.

Being willing to meet people without worrying about what they have.

And maybe most importantly...

Being willing to let people get to know what I actually have.

Which isn't a fancy house.

Or a perfect life.

Or a giant bank account.

It's me.

My sense of humor.

My stories.

My family.

My ridiculous little Pomapug.

My mistakes.

My successes.

My baggage.

My dreams.

My completely chaotic brain.

And hopefully, someday, a friend who thinks all of that is enough.

I Don't Need a Lot of Friends

I don't need a hundred friends.

I don't even need twenty.

I don't need a huge social circle.

I just want my people.

The kind of people who call because they want to hear your voice.

The person you can text when something completely ridiculous happens.

Someone to grab coffee with.

Someone to take a walk with.

Someone to laugh with until your stomach hurts.

Someone to cry with when life sucks.

Someone who celebrates your wins without secretly comparing them to theirs.

Someone who doesn't need you to be anything other than yourself.

Someone who doesn't use you.

Someone who doesn't make you feel like you have to earn their friendship.

Someone who just says:

"I like you. Let's be friends."

Maybe Judy was one of those once-in-a-lifetime people.

Maybe I'll never have a friendship exactly like ours again.

And maybe that's okay.

Because instead of spending the rest of my life trying to find another Judy, maybe I need to be open to finding someone completely different.

Someone new.

Someone I haven't met yet.

Someone who doesn't know anything about the person I used to be.

Someone who gets to meet Cyndee.

Not the daughter.

Not the wife.

Not the mom.

Not the leader.

Not the person who can fix everything.

Just...

Cyndee.

And maybe that's the real friendship I'm looking for.

Not someone who needs me.

Not someone who wants something from me.

Just someone who wants to be with me.

To laugh.

To cry.

To walk.

To talk.

To be ridiculous.

To be real.

And maybe, when I get to Tennessee, I'll find her.

Or him.

Or them.

I don't know.

But I'm going to try.

Because I've spent enough of my life worrying about what I had and what everyone else had.

I think I'm finally old enough to understand what actually matters.

It's never been the house.

It's never been the clothes.

It's never been the money.

It's always been the people.

And maybe...

it's not too late to find my people.

Less stuff. Less bullshit. More life.

And maybe...

more friends.