My Best Friend And I Stopped Talking For 5 Years. Then I Learned The Surprising Truth About Why.

Throughout the entire three-hour drive to San Simeon, I wondered if I should prepare topics of conversation in case there were awkward lulls, but I ultimately decided against it. Let’s just let whatever is there, be there, I thought. This didn’t deter me, however, from arriving a few minutes early to redo my hair and put on lipstick. She texted a few minutes out that she, too, still needed to put on mascara. We’d mopped beer-soaked streamers off the floor of our rickety college apartment in unlaundered T-shirts at 7 a.m., but there’s an anxiety that comes with a reunion which screams, If nothing else, they can’t think I totally let myself go.

As I walked across the pavement toward the visitor center, I spotted Kristi’s blonde ponytail and denim jacket near some shrubbery. She looked up from her phone, and she saw me too. The same jubilant girl I’d met at 18 years old power walked over to me with a huge smile and warm hug as though no time had passed. She looked exactly the same. It felt amazing to see her. 

Even though our reunion may have felt a little too breezy, a little too fast, it was clear she was choosing to put the past in the past. Nonconfrontational — that was her way. I could see she needed to do that. And, as her friend, I realized I needed to let her do that. This was imperfect, no way around that. But I wanted her in my life more than I wanted to be mad at her. I reminded myself our friendship flourished when we accepted each other as we were. There was nothing false or inauthentic about that. We were here. We were trying.

Once I gave over, the rest of the trip was so unawkward, it was almost awkward. As we boarded the bus to take us up the hill to the castle, Kristi exuberantly showed me a photo of her 3-year-old son trying to ride her pit bull, Bianca, and another of her family’s second house in Tahoe. I entertained Kristi with anecdotes of showbiz, burlesque classes I’d taken, and the museum exhibit that is Hinge. 

Married, she listened wide-eyed to my dating stories, as though she’d stumbled upon an exciting, secret portal. She seemed genuinely fascinated by the breadth of my experiences and covetous of my “me” time — quite a different reception than I’d received when last we left off. Similarly, I was surprised to find myself admiring the warmth and fullness of her life. Five years ago, I may have mischaracterized her burgeoning lifestyle as prescriptive and confining — but confining is only ever in the eye of the beholder. No one knows that better than the woman who has a self-destructive relationship with her writing career. Kristi had the foresight to acquire some of the things I never knew I wanted until I realized I didn’t have them. I could see that now.

It’s been a year since Kristi and I got back in touch and six months since Hearst Castle. We continue to catch up every few weeks by phone, exchange existential and musical theater-themed Instagram reels that remind us of each other, and text quick tips on sex, books and asshole colleagues. We’ve even committed to planning another trip as soon as our lives slow down a bit. Perhaps Sonoma. Or maybe Vegas.

Probably the biggest realization I’ve made over the past year is how little our breakup actually had to do with our lives diverging — and how much it had to do with the fact we’d stopped truly seeing each other. Five years ago, Kristi and I were each at crossroads in life, terrified of the choices we were making, insecure in who we were, and desperate to receive reassurance from the one person who mattered most … the one person without the capacity to provide it at that time. We hadn’t realized how much the other needed us, and so we grew resentful and judgmental. It was partly out of hurt, but mostly as a way of validating our own choices. Now, years after the divergence happened and our identities felt more secure, we really appreciated each other’s lives.