Our Story (Sarah's Version)

Life has a way of naturally breaking itself into four quarters, each with its own existential crisis. You have your 20s - college and dating. Your 40s - climbing the corporate ladder. Your 60s - empty nest, retirement planning. Then your 80s (if we're lucky), when you finally stop caring what people think, mostly because you're running out of time anyway.

This model was destined to fail from the start, at least for me. I've always had the carefree nature of an 80 year old, have been saving for retirement since I was 16 because I couldn't imagine working into my 60s, walked away from my six figure, bougie corporate job in my 40s, and got divorced in my 20s. I'd say I'm just unique, but I think it's actually the opposite - I don't know anyone who has followed that model who is truly happy.

I'd like to meet whoever these Jones' are that we're all supposed to be keeping up with because I have a funny feeling that they don't exist; they're the unique ones. Yet we keep chasing the dream, posting the highlight reels, and genuinely believe that the next milestone, the next job, around the next corner, things will be better. The perpetual optimist.

I have a tattoo on my foot that says 'don't look down' - a reminder to keep my head up, eyes forward, chasing my own finish line instead of watching everyone else's race. I also once accidentally stepped on a sting ray and ended up in a Mexican hospital after not looking down as I was walking into the ocean, so you know, it's about balance.

Now don't get me wrong, I was very fortunate. I remarried and had a beautiful family, a great career, and wonderful friends, but I always felt like there was something missing. Chalk it up to social anxiety, trust issues, or undiagnosed autistic tendencies, I always figured I just wasn't meant to have that kind of best friend; the kind of best friend where you could bust into their house unannounced with a bottle of wine and a story to tell about who wronged you that day. The kind of best friend who was always on your side, ready to grab a shovel if the situation warranted burying a body.

Fast forward to 2017 where I found myself a few months back from maternity leave with a new found perspective on life and trying to find the balance between work and home. I remember when I would pick up my daughter from daycare and she would excitedly babble about her new little friend. My mission-impossible-style entry - get in, acquire child, avoid eye contact, get out- meant I'd never met him, but I heard about him every day.

Let me be clear, I was polite and kept my RBF in check, but I also maintained a pace that gave the perception I had somewhere to be other than at home watching Grey's Anatomy and changing diapers.

Today was different. I was hunched over my daughter, awkwardly trying to put on her oversized snowsuit while smiling politely but avoiding prolonged eye contact with the other parents when a shadow fell across my back, followed by a soft, hesitant tap on my shoulder.

I braced myself for the polite but likely surface level conversation I was about to endure, already mentally rehearsing an excuse to cut it short, but when I turned around, I forgot the script. Standing there was a woman whose eyes held a deep, familiar exhaustion, yet also a surprising, immediate kindness.

"Are you Arya's Mom?" she asked. The four simple words weren't a question; they were an invitation to a life-changing friendship, to showing up, to finally being seen, and to finally having someone with a decent shovel. She was Ethan's mom and he was apparently a delight, so extra points to Arya for good taste.

A few weeks later we arranged a playdate for the kids and just clicked. We decided to ditch the tiny humans and go out for a drink. Several sangrias and 4.5 hours later, we left only because the place was closing. Different in every way, it was like two magnets who spent our lives in a sea of plastic; longing for someone that stuck. That day, just like our two little people, we became inseparable.

Now when I glance down at my tattoo, a mark of resilience and hope for better times ahead, I'm reminded of my best friend. The one who helped me keep my head up. The spice to my salt. My soul sister. My reason to finally stop running out of daycare pickup like I had somewhere better to be.