How I Found Friends In The Strangest Of Places

Though “be a joiner” is my M.O., I thought I’d try something less stressful. I signed up for our church’s writing group. I’m a writer, after all, and Austin is well-known for its creative class. I anticipated stimulating discussions and bonding over the uncertainties of artistic endeavors. Lovely as the group was, I felt unable to contribute to workshopping poetry, young adult and dystopian fiction. The kind of freelance work I do has little overlap. We weren’t a good fit.

I knew developing relationships in a new city at my age would be hard and take time, yet discouragement roiled me. I texted faraway friends, asking one, a writer, via a rambling stream-of-consciousness thread, to please don her life coach hat. Generally, we discuss writing, but I needed more, so we talked about being women in midlife.

Meanwhile, I’ve become a novice birder, watching them flit around our live oaks from my office window. They’ve grown on me, bringing me comfort. I’ve learned to match their songs with species using an app. As strange as it sounds, they’re a source of camaraderie, and I listen for them each morning when I get up.

A neighborhood provides an organic source of connection, and I watch my neighbors — without being weird — wishing I knew them. Every time I go on a walk or run, I greet anyone I pass. I’ve connected with the renters across the street, a group of lovely young women, and had them on our front porch on a breezy evening for wine. But their lease is up soon and they’re all heading in different directions. Another homeowner down the street and I exchanged numbers so we can at least help each other with packages left on porches when away.

I joined a local food co-op, figuring as a card-holding member I’d feel a sense of belonging. Case in point: I just received a friendly members-only email and opened it immediately. Membership indeed has its rewards — I’m invited to please come in for a taco special lunch along with 26,000 other members.

After yoga class on a much-needed weekend getaway with my husband, I spoke to the instructor about being unable to find restorative yoga near my home. What she mentioned was mind-blowing: She told me to check out a nearby senior center. A senior center? If I was at least 50, she continued, I could take part in their offerings — yoga being among them.

A few days later, gripping my mat, I self-consciously entered the building to register before class. The woman who helped me with the forms was Holly, a radiant force bursting with positivity.

In the yoga room, people mostly older than me milled around and talked, dressed in sweatpants. T-shirts, tank tops and shorts. Uninhibited, many placed chairs by their mats, knowing they’d need the support during class. One was quite elderly and shook with palsy. Another wore a knee brace. Everyone helped each other grab blocks and straps and brightened when the instructor entered. The class was quiet, slow and very restorative — just what I was looking for.

And as for friends? They quickly came to call me by name and invited me to gatherings. It’s a calm, supportive space and besides yoga, I’ve joined the Pilates and stretching classes.

Holly is around for most of them, and we often grab coffee. Fighting cancer during the pandemic, she told me how the senior center community carried her. Her tenacity makes me marvel, as does her perspective on things. She’s unimpressed with money after meeting plenty of unhappy wealthy people during her tenure as a fundraiser for a hospice. Her trees make her happy, and she sings to them. Channeling her Greek heritage, she loves throwing dinner parties and bringing people together around great food. She’s the type who will be there if I need encouragement — or a ride to my colonoscopy.

After yoga one day, mat under arm, a neighbor I rarely see was walking her dog and stopped me. She pointed to the senior center. “They offer yoga?” she asked. I told her what I’d uncovered like I was divulging a secret. She had her own a-ha moment like I had earlier. She murmured, “I should go,” and it wouldn’t surprise me if she turned up.

At that moment, the script flipped. She’s an old-timer in the neighborhood and has been warm when we bump into each other, obviously hungry for community. Here was me — the newbie on the block — offering insights into the area, and she was eating it up, oblivious of the senior center’s activities.

Something tells me that finding your people is a lifelong quest and that meeting friends in new places never ends.

How have you made friends as you've grown older? Do you find it harder? Let us know in the comments below.