I’ve always appreciated the value of female friendships. I’ve been lucky to walk through life and encounter great women who hold up a mirror to the kind of person I want to be.
I tend to choose friends based on the qualities I want to improve in myself. I’ve done this for years — mostly unaware — but looking back, my closest friends have always had values or personality traits that I needed. The flip side? When I’ve been at my most vulnerable, I’ve sometimes chosen destructive friends — the kind I allowed to offer commentary without merit and judgement without cause. That was mostly in my twenties, thankfully. I choose better now.
I truly believe that when people enter your life, you don’t always get what you want. But you do get what you need. No matter how hard the lesson.
And the lessons aren’t always bad. The best ones usually play out right in front of you, forcing you to question your values and beliefs in real time.
I’m a watcher. I rarely listen, but I always observe.
Through watching my mum, aunts and sisters, I’ve seen the power of female friendships. They’ve pulled them out of their darkest moments.
My mother only had a brother. Her mother was her dad’s second wife. The first wife had borne only daughters and a son was needed to take over the family farm. Both of her stepsisters passed away when she was young. My mum didn’t have a good relationship with her own mother. That woman had lived a hard life, running a farm with two young children. My mum’s father had died soon after she was born — overseas — and they had never met.
Her first real friend was her sister-in-law. That friendship lasted her whole life.
My sister-in-law? Absolutely insufferable. But if it meant my mum got the good one, I’ll take that.
That’s how I make sense of things. I once lost a diamond earring at a facial. At first, I was horrified. Then my brain went into fix-it mode: Well, what would you prefer — two diamond studs, or one earring and you still have your mother? My mum, every time.
Then I’m over it. But even in those moments, the idea of losing her feels unimaginable. But that’s for another day.
I’ve had great relationships with men. I like the simplicity of them. But the more I get to know them, the less I choose to invest. In my experience, there’s an overuse of that simplicity — when it benefits them, or when it lets them avoid real accountability. Most of my male relationships have ended in sadness. The take is always more than the give.
The issue, more often than not, is ego. Inflated, fragile, and completely allergic to self-reflection. Feedback is taken as criticism — the ego is that fragile!
What surprises me is this: I’ve watched how men interact with each other, taking the piss, often mercilessly. But the moment a woman offers even gentle criticism, the shutters come down. All services withdrawn.
It’s like they’ve built an ego for self-preservation — but all it’s become is a prison.
Without self-reflection, you’ll always be stuck in that cage, staring out.
Come out and play — I promise we won’t bite.
(Unless you ask nicely.)
However, I do see change coming. A movement — blink and you might miss it — but it’s there. A new generation bubbling up on our TVs, showing men in a clearer focus. Men who are self-aware. Men thinking about how they speak, how they sit, how they relate. Men asking questions. Reflecting. Valuing kindness and generosity. Supporting, as well as being supported.
My son is one of these men. He’s held to account. He knows that communication matters and that kindness is key. Whether he chooses to put those values into practice is up to him — but he understands that how he shows up will affect the connections he builds.
He’s allowed to tell me when I’ve upset him. When I can do better. And he’s learning how to receive that kind of feedback, too. He doesn’t like it — who would? The patriarchy mostly benefits men. But he sees the value. It’s important that he sees the positives.
I can’t have him being a prick. Oh God please don’t let him be a prick!
My female friendships have been the ones to sustain me — and the ones to force me to really look in the mirror. I have some truly wonderful, inspiring women in my life. And some duds.
And the duds are just that. I feel sorry for them — they’ve never drunk from the fountain of sisterhood. Or worse, they only drink from the fountain. Never replenishing. These fuckers are just that — fuckers. They exist to test you. Some are sneakier than others. You only see their true self during their highest highs, which relationships they choose to keep investing in.
And here’s the biggest red flag: do you hesitate before sharing your good news with them? Is there a flicker of envy? Has your achievement been downplayed?
I have always known that my soulmate isn’t my husband — because my soulmate isn’t a man. My soulmates are my soul sisters. That’s where I’m nourished, where I’m really seen. Some of them have come and gone, like seasonal workers. But one? She’s permanent staff. My best friend has been in my life for 35 years. That relationship has carried me through some hard times. The deaths of loved ones, and marriage troubles, through the joy of having children. We’ve shared holidays, and countless silly nights in/out. Bras off, cosy pyjamas, takeaway containers between us, laughing so hard we were genuinely worried about pissing ourselves. There have been so many occasions where we’ve had tears streaming down our faces… and wee trickling down our legs.
My bad bitch still never fails to amaze me — or take my breath away.
Our most recent adventure? A night out.
It started with dinner (and wine — lots of wine), followed by a birthday party. Free bar. Two more cocktails on top of half a bottle of wine.
I’m not a drinker.
We left. While waiting for an Uber, I stumbled towards a tree and threw up.
Fuck.
I could hear her in the background:
“Babe, no. You don’t need to throw up. You’re fine. I know your fine.”
But after a few seconds of me retching, her message changed.
“Better out than in, babe. Oh look babe, there’s our Uber.”
We got in. It wasn’t long before my stomach started heaving again. I opened the window and stuck my head out like a dog.
All the while, my soul sister kept talking — filling every silence with her steady stream of words.
My mouth filled with vomit. I tried to swallow it back down.
Big mistake. The pressure of upwards vomit met with me trying to swallow it down.
I projectile vomited out of this poor Uber driver’s window.
Fuck.
Of course, the driver started losing his shit.
He threatened to drop us off on the layby of a busy A road.
I was still throwing up, trying to say sorry mid-hurl.
Then I heard her — calm, fierce and matter of fact:
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Don’t shout at my friend. Can’t you see she’s unwell? I think you’re being very rude to her. You can’t drop us at a layby — that’s a safety issue. She’s clearly trying her best not to get any inside the car.”
The driver tried to argue in the small gaps between her words.
I managed to say, “I’m so sorry. Just drop us at a bus stop — we’ll make our way from there.”
We got out and cleaned the outside of the car with wet wipes.
He drove off.
As I was trying to clean myself up, I caught her in the corner of my eye.
And there she was.
Squatting in a corner, dress bunched around her waist, pissing freely watching it ran through the cracks in the pavement.
And I thought to myself:
God, I love her.
No one had ever stood up for me like this.
I was completely in the wrong, and she had single-handedly turned the whole thing around to protect me.
As i gurgled the last of the vomit out of my mouth, I realised…
I felt so incredibly loved.
This is the power of a women’s relationship. If we women really focused — like really focused — we could fuck some serious shit up. We’ve been in training since birth. We know how to read a room, we are hyper-vigilant the second we walk in. We scan for threats. We take note of tone, side-eyes, micro-expressions. We taste the atmosphere and we have a keen gut instinct.
We are incredible. And all that training? It would normally be reserved for spies or crisis negotiators.
But here we are. Burdened by the quiet, crushing monotony of the female load.
We carry too much. From the quiet sacrifices of our mothers to the invisible labour. Trying to raise better men than we were given.
I want deep, steady, and sacred relationships.
We’ve been playing small for centuries. Maybe it’s time we really focused.
Imagine what we will do.
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