Field Report from Someone Who Tried the Existential Guide
Notes on trying to make friends when everyone already has theirs
I read your friendship manifesto with genuine appreciation and also mild despair. You wrote the liturgy beautifully—the metaphysics are sound, the instructions are tender, the whole thing makes me want to go make a bog with someone. But I need the deity to show up, and so far? Radio silence.
The Missing Variables
Age. I’m in my 50s. Our culture stops making friends at 30. By the time you hit midlife, everyone already has their roster, or thinks they do. The slots are full. New applicants need not apply.
Geographic limbo. I’m split between two cities—one where I’m trying to breathe, one where my almost-ex has colonized the social infrastructure. It’s hard to build roots when you’re living in an RV five nights a week and nothing feels permanent yet.
The transition tax. I’m in the middle of a massive life shift. I’m becoming someone new—awake after decades of being medicated and numb. But it’s hard to make friends when you’re still figuring out who you’re becoming. People want the finished version. I’m still under construction.
Situational vs. cumulative mismatch. I’m a movie person trying to connect with snapshot people. I accumulate. They file things away and move on. I remember the dance; they remember the song. That’s not a small difference—it’s the fault line that breaks most of my attempts at connection.
Gym culture. I’ve been going to the same gym at the same time for eight months. I’ve seen the same people. I’ve said hi. I’ve made googly eyes at half a dozen of them. Not one person has spoken to me. Gyms are where people go to actively avoid being perceived.
What I’ve Tried
I did the apps. Bumble BFF. Befriend. “Performance hookup apps disguised as false hope,” as I call them now. I met someone once. It fizzled when I showed up as my full self—newly awake, processing grief, writing for the first time in my life—and they realized I was “too much.” They wanted brunch. I was offering the whole movie.
I went to writing groups. Once. The timing coincided with my sabbatical, and I never went back.
I kept showing up—to the gym, to my life, to the page. I started a Substack. I’m working on six books. I made myself findable.
And still: no friend.
So Where’s My Infinite Friend?
You said they show up disguised as a barista, a stranger in the smoking area, the person who slides you the one sentence you needed. But I’ve been waiting. I’ve been available. I’ve been doing the liturgies.
The only one who showed up consistently was a bearded dragon. And then he died.
Maybe the Infinite Friend is also in their 50s, also in an RV, also wondering where the hell their person is. Maybe we’ll meet someday at a random writing workshop and immediately recognize each other like, “Oh, THERE you are.”
Or maybe—and I hate this option—the Infinite Friend doesn’t show up until after I make the scary move. Until after I’m settled somewhere I actually chose. Until I’m not in limbo anymore.
Which would be annoying timing, but very on-brand for how life works.
The Point
I’m not saying your manifesto is wrong. It’s beautiful. It’s true. It’s everything I needed to read.
I’m just saying: I tried. I’m still trying. And the gap between “go where hands do things” and “actually finding the person who will doomscroll beside you for four hours in comfortable silence” is wider than the instructions account for.
So if anyone reading this is also in their 50s, cumulative, stuck between cities, and wondering where their Infinite Friend is—hi. I’m here. Let’s get ice cream and complain about how hard this is.
Because apparently, it’s easier to buy a boat. 💙
Inspired by The Shadowed Archive’s essay “An Existential Guide to: Making Friends.” It was too good not to answer.
