I find myself constantly thinking and writing about loss these days. I guess it comes with the over 60 territory.
I’ve mentioned a few times now that I’ve been exploring and writing a book about loss. And of course, there are different kinds of loss. (And grief.)
The kind of loss we talk about most is death.
But there is another kind of grief we don’t acknowledge nearly enough.
One is the grief of outgrowing people. (I touched on this in my post about shedding.)
Not because anyone did anything terrible. Not because of some dramatic falling out. Sometimes it’s simply because the person you used to be quietly disappeared… and the people who loved that version of you never really connected with the new one.
Sometimes the old you dies long before your body does. And not everyone attends that funeral.
I used to have people at my house all the time. Barbecues. Dinner parties. Holiday get-togethers. Last-minute “stop by for a glass of wine or a margarite” evenings that somehow turned into midnight conversations. (We killed many a blender!)
One of my favorite memories was what eventually became known as The Hat Box Crew.
I had flown home from Los Angeles because I desperately needed a dose of my girls. Out west, my crew was a group of guys. Fraternity brothers I met over the years while visiting before I made the move. I became one of them and had a blast. Men are hilarious! (As long as you’re not dating them! I learned so much about men hanging with the fellas.)
So, I planned a trip home, and I invited my crew over for brunch.
Brunch became dinner.
That’s usually what happens when you mix women, wine, and absolutely no reason to be anywhere else.
As the wine disappeared, so did our filters. The stories became funnier, more outrageous, and considerably less appropriate. At one point, one friend confessed that she kept all of her secrets—and a few other mysterious items—in a hat box.
Naturally, we laughed until we cried.
The next time I came home, we all gathered around another friend’s dining room table decorating our own hat boxes. They became our private vaults. A place to store letters, memories, dreams, disappointments… and maybe a few things that would require an attorney if discovered.
It wasn’t just about the boxes.
It was about having women who knew your stories before you had to explain them.
Women who finished your sentences.
Women who could make you laugh so hard your stomach hurt.
Inspired by all of this, I suggested we write a screenplay together.
Everyone loved the idea.
We met once or twice. Talked about characters. Shared more stories.
Then life happened. The meetings stopped. The script never did. Eventually I wrote the outline myself and finished a draft, creating fictional characters inspired by each of those amazing women.
Then I saved the file…..into the Hat Box folder on my laptop. Where, ironically, it still sits.
I thought about all of this over the weekend and it occurred to me that if I hosted another Hat Box Party today…
I’m honestly not sure anyone would come.
One friend died.
One relationship quietly faded after I lost my granddaughter. During the hardest season of my life, I noticed who wasn’t there. Once you notice an absence that profound, it’s difficult to unsee it.
Another friend simply drifted away. To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure why.
The others didn’t disappear because they stopped caring. Life claimed them.
One spends nearly every week traveling back to Chicago to care for her aging father and lost her own son.
Another is caring for her elderly mother and won’t even take her birthday off because caregiving doesn’t recognize birthdays. As someone who cared for my own mother, I completely understand.
You don’t stop loving your friends. (Well, some you might!) You just run out of hours.
I’ve made new friends over the years, but one is juggling work while caring for two aging parents. It became impossible to make and stick to a plan without an emergency derailing the plans.
Another is helping an aging mother, a brother in a nursing home, and a sister dealing with health problems. Every time we try to make plans, one of us experiences another loss, another obligation, another emergency.
Welcome to your sixties.
Where everyone’s calendar comes with a side of grief.
Outside of that original crew, I’ve watched other friendships quietly expire too.
Some naturally. Some intentionally. Some because we changed. Some because they changed.
Some because growth isn’t always mutual. Sometimes the new version of you simply doesn’t fit inside old relationships anymore.
That’s a strange kind of heartbreak. No arguments. No betrayal.
Just… silence.
I miss having a crew.
I miss laughing until someone snorted.
I miss having people who knew me before I had gray hair, glasses planted all over the house, and a collection of flat shoes and Nikes.
These days, I’m alone a lot.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I actually like being alone. (SOMETIME!)
I treasure quiet mornings, uninterrupted writing time, and the freedom to be silent.
But there is a difference between enjoying solitude…and living in isolation.
Lately, I’ve realized I’ve crossed that line more often than I’d like.
Most of my closest friends now live thousands of miles away. Ironically, one of the people I talk to most is a guy.
I do have a cousin in New York, and every month or two I go visit her. She has this incredible circle of women.
They’re funny. Diverse. Interesting. Supportive. (Mostly!)
The kind of group that reminds you what community feels like.
Every time I’m with them, I feel alive again. Every single visit, I find myself wishing I didn’t have to come home. Because when I’m with them, I remember what it feels like to belong to a circle.
Maybe that’s what this season of life is teaching me.
Not every friendship is meant to last forever.
Some people are there for a chapter.
Some are there for a sentence.
Some are around for the entire story.
And some leave behind a hat box full of memories that still make you smile years later.
Maybe the answer isn’t trying to recreate the crew I had. Maybe it’s having the courage to build a new one.
Because somewhere out there are other women sitting at home on a Saturday night wondering what happened to their crew.
Maybe they’re missing laughter and like me, they’re missing connection.
Maybe they’re waiting for someone else to send the invitation.