Confessions of a Fringe Friend

A guest essay for you by Lindsay Sledge

Hey friend,

Lindsay Sledge is my grammar girl. She reads my words and makes them better in my writing group, Waffles and Writing. She is also a fantastic writer. I am so grateful for this piece she wrote especially for me while I’m postpartum. I plan to be back in your inbox in October. Bec 💛

Photo by Chris Murray on Unsplash

“I don’t have any friends,” I lament to my husband nearly once a month. It’s usually 8 p.m. when my three kids are tucked into bed and my anxiety shows up as an uninvited playmate.

It doesn’t help that I am scrolling through Instagram.

“Best night out with these ladies!”

“These girls continually fill my heart!”

“How can I say what this group means to me?”

The pictures that accompany these captions always look the same. A group of women hover in a semicircle, clad in trendy tops and fashionable jeans. They are enjoying a night out on the town. Sometimes it’s Saturday morning when the updates appear, these same ladies posing in floral print dresses beneath a banner celebrating one of their most recent milestones.

Whatever the occasion, the ladies celebrate together because they achieved it together. This is a group of friends who live life together. They are not just friends but best friends. A close-knit core group like the type I have tried and failed to infiltrate for the better part of my thirty-six years.

It’s not that I have a problem making friends. I’m bubbly, which makes it easy to start conversations. I’m a good listener, so once another person starts talking, I’m content to sit back and lend an ear. My weakness, however, is my social anxiety. The palm sweating, heart palpitating, what was I thinking leaving my house kind of anxiety that consumes me in a variety of settings: once the headcount tops four; whenever the clock strikes 9 p.m.; and when I’ve said something awkward, overanalyze it, and cannot figure out how to recover and re-engage. Insert my cue to leave. 

I may be well past the where should I sit in the school cafeteria stage of life, but my people skills have yet to surpass the fantastically flawed characters from the movie, Mean Girls. Perhaps I am not the Regina George, top of the food chain, apex predator type. I am, however, a bit of a Janis Ian, so frustrated about living on the outskirts that I unintentionally force myself even further toward the fringe. Because at the age of 36, I can confidently admit that the obvious female groupings remain.

There are the single ladies who work hard during the day and schedule social events after hours. They purchase season tickets to local theaters and arenas where they hum along to Wicked and cheer for their favorite sports teams. 

Then there are those married without children who clearly love their spouses but also need a break. When book clubs and paint-and-sip nights become monotonous, they plan excursions to exciting cities. 

All too often, the demands of motherhood leave me little time to mingle with these women, so I turn my attention toward the other mothers.

There are the homeschool moms who meet in each others’ houses and spend their days teaching, taking field trips, and traveling across the suburbs to an assortment of extracurricular activities.

There are the professional moms who dress in tailored slacks, wave to their children before they board the school bus, and carry Stanley cups into office buildings. These ladies focus on their careers for eight plus hours before switching back into parent mode at the end of busy days.

There are the MLM moms who expertly apply essential oils and clean with Norwex products. The crunchy moms who own chickens that roam as freely as their kids. The breastfeed-through-toddlerhood moms who collaborate on the best methods to make organic baby food. The sports moms who chitchat on the sidelines through endless seasons of practices and competitions. 

The list of cliques goes on and on, but my place as an outsider never changes. I am a dabbler, dipping my toes into each of the groups but refusing to fully commit. 

Where is the group for awkward introverts who love to sing along with Elphaba but want to slip into their pajamas at 9 p.m.? The women who stay at home with their children and only travel into the pages of the romance novels they binge read from school car lanes? Where are the ladies who like the smell of essential oils but prefer to clean with Clorox? The women who think chickens are cute but visit the grocery store to buy baby food and eggs? Where can I find the mothers who value team sports but limit their kids to one a year because it’s easy to become overwhelmed with commitments?

If I knew the answer to these questions, I wouldn’t be scrolling through Instagram with an inner dialogue running amuck in my head. Is something wrong with me? Why can’t I fit in? What am I doing wrong? Do I need to change?

My husband gently nudges my shoulder from his spot next to me on the couch. “You have friends,” he says, his familiar voice ending my trance. “Didn’t you and Krista just have a movie night?” 

I nod, thinking back to my friend from college and our Barbie rewatch. I remember that I promised to set a date for a Crazy Rich Asians viewing party.

“And didn’t you and Emily just meet up for tea?” he continues.

I smile, thinking about my daughter, Savannah, who tagged along. She stole Emily’s milk jug and dumped the liquid on the dainty tablecloth. Emily made a dash for paper towels and helped clean the mess. 

“You’re right,” I concede. I do have a few good friends. Just not the banner hanging, semicircle embracing group of besties that I wish for when the loneliness seeps in. 

While I am genuinely thankful for my small collection of close companions, I would be lying if I said I didn’t fear I was missing out on something greater. The desire for connection is deeply rooted in how women were created. From the earliest ages, girls choose to gather together. I sense the significance in living alongside others who will lift me up through life’s ever changing stages. So why is it so challenging for me to find where I fit in?

My heart fills with peace when I remember to turn toward my God in heaven, to the God who values relationships so much that he is part of a holy Trinity. I often pray that he will provide me with a larger group of friends who will carry me through the strain of parenting littles and surround me with comfort when the littles eventually leave.

There is also value in spending less time on Instagram. Rather than obsessing about the areas of my life that don’t mirror others, I would benefit from embracing the places where I do fit. Social media is an obvious distortion, a simplified snapshot of reality. The real world is far more complex, the variables are what make it interesting. 

I swipe up to close the app and set my phone down for the evening. Then I snuggle into my husband and pull a blanket over our laps. I breathe in the stillness, my inner dialogue quieter now. I’m grateful for the friends I’ve been given, those I already know and those I have yet to meet.

Lindsay Sledge lives in Music City with her college sweetheart and three charismatic kids. She spends half of her week in car lanes, disappearing into magical worlds of fantasy fiction and drafting essays about everyday life. Her essays have appeared in Coffee + Crumbs, Her View From Home, and Kindred Magazine, along with others. You can read more of her writing on Substack or Instagram.