Last night I drank far too much with my friends, and the evening turned into a blur of laughter and reckless honesty. They were tossing around dark jokes—one said, “my uncle is in jail for running a meth lab,” another added, “my uncle is in jail for assault.” Without thinking, I blurted out, “my uncle is in jail for hurting me.”
It wasn’t planned. It slipped out in the rhythm of our joking, and I didn’t immediately register how serious it sounded. We were joking about trauma, and mine surfaced without warning.
The moment the words left my mouth, panic set in. I braced myself for silence, for discomfort, for the conversation to stumble awkwardly forward.
But instead, three of my friends rushed toward me. They wrapped me in an embrace, holding me close.
I don’t remember every detail of that night, but I do remember one friend looking me in the eye and saying, “I’m so glad I’m your friend—you’re the funniest person I know.” Another added softly, “I’m grateful you’re still here. You’re one of my favorite people.”
They didn’t let go right away. They stayed with me, asked if there was anything they could do, and I told them simply that I was thankful. Thankful to have them, thankful to love them, thankful to be loved in return. And I meant every word.
I’m only a freshman in college, and I met these people not long ago. Yet their response showed me something rare.
In the past, friends would have scolded me for oversharing, or ignored me altogether. And that was fine—they had no obligation to comfort me, nor to act as therapists.
But the difference now is striking. To know I can lean on these new friends, to feel their support in the face of something so painful, is a gift I never expected.
I love my friends. Truly, I do.
