Sometimes I wonder if losing my mother is the reason I hesitate when it comes to forming close bonds with other women.
I’ve gone most of my life without her, my first best friend, my first example of womanhood, my first safe place.
And in her absence, I’ve found myself guarded, unsure of how to lean into sisterhood, unsure of how to trust that kind of closeness.
She was supposed to be the one to show me.
How to navigate friendships with grace.
How to be soft without breaking.
How to communicate, to show up, to forgive, to grow alongside other women without fear.
She would’ve taught me what real friendship looks like, the kind that lasts, the kind that holds you when the world is too loud.
But instead, I was left learning alone.
And without her, I think I built walls where I should’ve built bridges.
Not because I didn’t crave connection, but because I was afraid of losing it again.
Afraid of letting someone in and watching them disappear.
Afraid that closeness always comes with a cost.
So I stayed safe.
Distant.
Polite, warm—but never too vulnerable. Never too close.
I admire women with deep, lifelong friendships. I think part of me longs for that, even aches for it.
But another part of me is still mourning the friendship I never got to have.
The laughter, the guidance, the late-night talks, the shared secrets between mother and daughter.
All of it lost before it ever truly began.
And maybe that’s why I’ve struggled to trust female friendships in the present.
Because the first one I was meant to have, the most important one, was taken from me far too soon.
I’m learning, slowly, that I can still open up.
That her absence doesn’t have to mean a lifetime of loneliness.
That I can create space for connection now, even if it feels unfamiliar.
Even if it scares me.
Even if it hurts a little to begin.
Because deep down, I know she would’ve wanted that for me.
