Wherever You Go, There They Are: A Love Letter to Chosen Family
Ding ding. The chime of a text message arriving alerts me to the fact that I’ve forgotten to switch my phone to airplane mode. I glance around to see if anyone has noticed. We haven’t taken off yet, but the flight attendants are understandably cranky. You would be, too, if you had to work for a company that specializes in predictably pissing off its customers on a daily basis. Not to mention the reliability with which they can expect to confront irritating humans who resist following the simplest of instructions. “Sir, please move to your assigned middle seat” is regularly met with a scowl and indignation that the person whose seat he is occupying has arrived and doesn’t wish to cede the window seat they requested in advance.
My violation feels minor in comparison. My fingers glide across the phone, entering my password and hitting the message icon. I see the text is from Vijay, a friend I’ve always liked, but with whom I’ve neither spent concentrated time, nor seen much since the pandemic. I know that he and his wife have moved in down the street from me, but we haven’t yet connected in person. The message reads: “Are you available the last Friday of the month? We’re having a dinner party and would like you to join.” Checking my calendar, I see that I will have just returned from my trip and confirm that I would love to join. Just then, the flight attendant eyes me, annoyed, and delivers my reprimand: “Please put your phone on airplane mode.” I look away to avoid making eye contact and comply.
The plane takes off, and my mind wanders to the last six months, which have been difficult in an unprecedented way. The emotional debris from my most recent romantic relationships litter my consciousness, weighing me down with a sadness I can’t seem to shake. An impulsive attempt to put physical distance between me and the site of the fallout, this trip is yet one more attempt to re-establish my equilibrium in light of the year’s disappointments and loss. As the plane climbs to its prescribed elevation, I ruminate over the decision. Such a strategy was successful in the past, but that was many years ago. This time may be different. After all, I muse to myself, how often I have repeated the wisdom to friends, “Wherever you go, there you are.”
The trip is, predictably, just okay. Moving about Mexico City in a zombie-like state, I seek to eviscerate pain through novelty. I chat with locals. I chat with expats. I chat with musical nomads who, lacking geographical permanence, seem to survive — even thrive — through their ability to quickly establish ephemeral connections wherever they travel. Reeling from acute pain triggered by the abrupt loss of relationships I had thought were the opposite of ephemeral, I begin to consider if such connections could provide a sufficient level of social satisfaction, minus the emotional risk accompanying longer-term expectations.
The thing about ephemeral connections is the paradox that constitutes them. On the one hand, their novelty and duration preclude the opportunity to disappoint, and therefore, cause pain, in the way deep, enduring relationships can — and often do. On the other hand, this very strength forestalls the type of relationship that provides comfort. The type of relationship that nurtures from within. The type of relationship that offers the opportunity to undertake life’s great adventures with likeminded humans who will have your back. A bit like a light snack, ephemeral connections can serve as a sort of filler in between the more substantive relationships constituting one’s social world. It’s in this spirit that I decide I might as well make out with one of the musicians performing on the city’s vibrant stages. We all need a light snack to tide us over sometimes.
Only minimally recharged from the well-intentioned, but ill-timed, trip intended to lift my much depressed spirits, I return home to discover an apartment in shambles, a thank you gift from my summer subletters for the consideration I had shown in offering them a cleaning fee-free rental. Vacillating between the urge to laugh or cry at the series of challenging developments the universe periodically seems intent on throwing my way, I begin the process of cleaning up the literal and figurative mess that feels like my life. As I carry my now dead houseplants out to the backyard, I remember that I have dinner plans the next day with Vijay and Amber. Looking forward to positive vibes and new beginnings, a warm feeling washes over me.
The next evening, I grab wine and chocolate from the store across the street and walk the two short blocks to the new home of my friends. Warmly greeted at the door by the two of them, I’m given a quick tour of their new home before the others arrive. As we talk about the summer and my inconsiderate sub-tenants, I’m reminded how wonderful these two humans are. While I’ve casually known Vijay through mutual friends for several years now, the pandemic complicated everything social — and I’d only met Amber — his wife of a couple years — a few times before the world fell apart. Amber is lovely in literally all the ways. A kind, empathetic soul who glows from the inside out. If you can’t find joy and light in her company, you should probably take your ball and go home. She’s the perfect match for Vijay, whose warmth and intelligence is matched only by his — and Amber’s — curiosity and openness to all of life’s experiences, a trait I recently discovered to be a prerequisite for both my close friendships and romantic relationships. On this particular evening, I keep them up way past their usual bedtime, a sign that good connective vibes have been established. This will be the first of many such nights. Vampires are gonna vampire. To be fair, they were warned.
Very little time passes before I see them next — and then the next. In addition to offering to look after the canine fur baby and seeing them on the regular through this exchange, frequently spending time with them for dinner or a casual hangout quickly becomes a source of comfort and happiness. As if we’ve been friends for decades. When you connect on a deep level with someone(s), you eagerly anticipate the next time you’ll meet. Rather than reprimanding me for the contagion of my poor sleep hygiene, Vijay thoughtfully drops by with bottles of wine to share, wine that I had much enjoyed at their place. For her part, Amber brings over a plant to replace the ones that were killed by my sub-tenants. It all feels so comforting and symbolic. Vibrant, sweet new life and energy replacing the dead and dying.
Discovering new friendships that feel so natural is a bit like the early stage of new romantic relationships. The anticipation of all the fun things you’ll discover together is invigorating. Thoughts like “I can’t wait to show this to them” regularly emerge. And, as time goes on, such friendships deepen, with all the fun present experiences becoming intertwined with memories of those in the past. “Hey, remember that New Years Eve when the car got stuck in the snow at that house we rented and we had only cheese to eat and wine to drink?” is met with a nod of recollection and returned with a joke about the excruciating First World hardship endured by the lack of LaCroix that week.
Indeed, time-tested friendships that span the years are proof that human beings can get along — and work through challenges if and when they emerge, even if a casual survey of the average biological family — or the regular wars plaguing our planet — would lead us to conclude otherwise. Such friendships last because the humans in them choose to invest in them. Not because they feel they have to do so.
Andrew is one such time-tested case in point. As the pieces of my pre-2023 life were seemingly falling apart around me, he reminds me of the open invitation to come stay in Portland. I confirm that I will do exactly this. And, also, would he be up for a trip somewhere? Evaluating our budgetary and time considerations, we settle on a trip to the San Juan islands, a place neither of us has ever visited and that seems like an appropriate escape from reality. A month or so later, we set off in a rental car in the direction of Orcas Island. All of the details have been sorted by Andrew, thankfully, my mind and spirit not having been up for the task in light of the circumstances. His reward for these efforts? Endless, repetitive, teary conversations about the abrupt end of my relationship with a person whom my friends, having listened to nearly the same thing, just in a different context, several years before, had literally begged me to avoid. All to no avail. Only to be recalled to listen to the latest round of the biggest ache my heart had experienced thus far.
Having known each other and been close since our graduate school days, Andrew and I have the kind of seasoned relationship that is more like one between family members than friends. Never one to criticize, he can clearly communicate his disapproval through dark humor. He also never dispenses the “I told you so’s,” in spite of the fact that it must often be difficult to refrain. Instead of pointing out that it’s unsurprising that doing the same things with the same people might yield the same results, he listens with the patience of a saint and angrily curses the human responsible for my pain. The anger is real. He’s furious that emotional harm has once again befallen someone about whom he cares a great deal.
As September makes way for October, and with the holidays just around the corner, the oppressive pain of the summer slowly begins to lift. And as the holidays and, thus, the time of year you tend to spend with those closest to you, quickly approach, I’m increasingly conscious of being blessed in the friend department in equal measure to its inverse in some of my previous romantic ones. As more than one friend has pointed out, what I’ve sometimes lacked in judgment with respect to romantic partners, I more than make up for in the quality of my friendships.
One evening in late October, I join my friend, Dedrick for a concert. “Their name is Hippy Death Cult,” he announces to me a few weeks prior, “…they may be a little heavier than you generally like, but I doubt I can find anyone else willing to go.” Considering the name for about half a second, I laugh and agree. How can I say no to the friend who, just a few months before — and knowing I was in a depressive space, responded to my text “hey, Band of Horses is coming to the Greek…wanna come with me?” ten minutes later with “I got us tickets you’re going to like. It’s on my calendar.”
Now, this was the summer of ’23. And the summer of ‘23, which will henceforth be referred to as “that summer that shall not be named” (TSTSNBN), was cursed. Like playing a game of pinball with broken flippers, TSTSNBN felt a bit like the universe was shooting the silver balls past all the reward nodes, teasing at the prospect of small victories, while ensuring the only possible destination for literally every shot taken is the gobble hole. The thoughtfully arranged concert would be no different. It would take two hours to realize that the front row seats, for which Dedrick had expended no small amount of cash, had provided us excellent proximity to the wrong band — and one neither of us liked — since we had missed the Band of Horses, having erroneously gleaned from the poorly worded concert poster (and history) that the main act was the opener. As the realization set in that yet another pinball had landed in life’s gobble hole, I look at my friend with amused disbelief and quip, “Welp. Wanna go get drunk?” I already know his answer. That’s the kind of friend he is. So, yes, of course I would go see Hippy Death Cult. I would even sway to the music in close proximity to the mosh pit, sans earplugs. It wasn’t even a question.
Much ink has been spilled expounding the magic of romantic love. How many times have we all heard accounts of “just immediately knowing” when someone or another meets their important someone — or someones. Much less attention, however, is paid to relationships of other types, relationships that are no less meaningful. Ironically, these other relationships are the ones that provide safe harbor when romantic ones fail to prove as durable as the NRE (new relationship energy) might have us initially believe. And, just like with romantic relationships, sometimes you just know after spending a little time with someone that this is a friendship that’s going to be special. The kind you prioritize. The kind that makes you giddy with excitement as you consider all the adventures you’ll share together. Chosen family.
Enter Sofia, a human who would quickly become a special someone of my chosen family. One evening back before the TSTSNBN, I was out with my special someone who would soon become my unspecial no one. Bumping into Sofia and her partner, the evening takes an entertaining turn, before landing in disastrous territory. But not before I identify a kindred spirit in Sofia. Of course, I also identify that Sofia and I share similar taste in partners. Not in the physical sense, but in their unwavering commitment to avoiding the difficult work that might be required to meaningfully consider feelings other than their own, offloading difficult emotional work onto us, rather than engaging in self-reflection or, gasp, self-work in the process.
One sunny Friday, Sofia and I plan a friend date, a concept, it should be noted, that is woefully under-appreciated. American capitalism spares no expense advertising events and gifts for romantic dates, but has thus far shockingly neglected this category of events. Not a fan of capitalism, I find this oversight to be, not displeasing, but rather illuminating for what it suggests about our culture. Wandering around San Francisco’s Mission District, thrift store shopping, coffee drinking, and lazily wandering around book stores, I realize this “date” has literally recharged my batteries. This would be the first of many such wonderful evenings spent with Sofia. “Want to go see the light show in Oakland?” she asks around 4pm, when the afternoon starts to wind down. Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want to extend time with someone whose company is so easy, fun, and comforting? The “evening” ends around 5am, after we invite another friend back to my place, where we offramp the evening with a very 2023 debate: what’s going to kill us first — technology, climate change, or war?
The only negative thing about the entire day or evening was the inability (or rather lack of time) to meet up with yet another of the humans who fall into the category of chosen family: Gordon. Notifying Sofia that Gordon has invited us over to his place to enjoy the hot tub and a bottle of bubbly, I’m suddenly aware that I am a “victim” of a very good “problem” to have. There are more wonderful people I want to see than there is time in a given day. Indeed, if I included mention of all of the people with whom I’m lucky enough to share such a connection, the reader would likely grow quite fatigued. I digress. “Is he the one who let you stay in his apartment this summer?” she asks. He is indeed. Upon realizing that I had rented out my apartment to travel with partners — travel that would now cease to happen (remember: TSTSNBN) — Gordon, without hesitating, immediately offers me his apartment. He would be spending most of the summer traveling. This means his place would be free, and I would be “more than welcome to stay there,” he assures me.
The thing about empty apartments is that they’re empty. Not in the sense that there’s no furniture, but rather there’s no vibrancy. There are literally no other humans there. Gordon’s generosity in offering up his apartment as a solution to a logistical problem, however, is matched only by the warmth of his spirit when he periodically returns to town. It isn’t my home, but it feels like it. It feels safe. It feels like this because of Gordon. Whether sharing dinner together after a questionable attempt I make at cooking Italian food — which, I have to imagine, required untold energy not to provide commentary, in light of his Italian roots — or endlessly debating philosophical questions into the wee hours, time with Gordon is home —both figuratively and, in this moment, quite literally.
Home means different things to different people. More than just a building or physical structure, it carries all sorts of associations. Safety. Security. A place where one feels comfortable. It can also imply the congregation of people who feel like family. Or at least this is how I experience it. Gather your chosen family together in one place, and it doesn’t matter if you’re in a building, a meadow, on a beach, or at an event. It feels like home. Attend a large weekend event with chosen family, and this all becomes clear.
One such opportunity presented itself one week in November. Descending on a town in the Sierras for an art festival that has become my favorite event of the year, I arrive at the destination with eight or nine close, including many aforementioned, friends in tow. “Whatever you think it will be, I promise it will be weirder,” I warn them all. Undeterred, they all rally, bringing their open minds, their willingness to try new things, and a helluva lot of weird new clothes and accessories to the table. As we wander the premises in search of the weird, the weirder, and the weirdest, I have an epiphany: I had one FUCKED UP summer. But, for gods sake, I’m SO fucking lucky to have these people in my life. Some people go all their lives and never find their people. Some people never find the depth of these sort of connections — or settle for relationships that drain, rather than recharge. Just because. Because they went to the same high school. Because they work at the same place. Or because they’re a friend of the family.
“Want to check out this installation?” Dedrick asks? “Sure!” ripples through our group, as we all move in the direction of the art in question. The most important thing is that we’re all together. People outside our bubble comment throughout the weekend on the rarity of such a phenomenon. Noticing Lee isn’t in the line, Amber asks, “Wait! Where did Lee go?” We wait until Lee returns from the bathroom, roving through the event as a gaggle, feeding off the positive energy generated by the togetherness. “Who needs water?” Gordon checks in, before grabbing cups of this most precious resource to bring back to any of us needing it. Noticing Sofia has gone missing for a few minutes, Lee and Matt walk over in the direction of where we last saw her. To make sure she’s ok. And to keep the gaggle together. As we wrap up the evening and I realize I’ve misplaced my jacket, Vijay chases after me with his coat, determined that I stay warm in my slinky little dress. I consider all of this the next morning while I drink my favorite coffee drink, the warmth of which I’m enjoying only because Dedrick went on a run before I woke up.
With 2023 nearly over, and TSTSNBM becoming less and less prominent in the rear view mirror, the realization has crystallized that, while physical distance, a change of scenery, and ephemeral connections can sometimes provide perspective when life becomes too much, wherever you go, there you are. You can try to distance yourself from the things that challenge you most, but this won’t ultimately resolve them. They’ll simply exist below the surface unless, or until, you productively work through them. Moreover, what matters most in this world are the people around you. The humans you choose to grant access to all the bits of your life —both the fun bits and the ones that require establishing trust and embracing vulnerability. One’s chosen family. Romantic partners are a part of this, of course, but they are certainly not all of it. The more you travel the road that winds through the things that matter in life, the more you come to realize that, with chosen family, wherever you go, there they are. And, with any luck, they might be there with you to dance your problems away until the sun comes up!