Some friends come into our lives like fireworks—bright, loud, unforgettable. Others are more like the steady flame of a campfire: warm, enduring, and just as life-changing, though in quieter ways. For me, it was the latter—a friend whose impact didn’t fully hit me until long after we’d spent endless hours arguing about existential philosophy over cheap diner fries. His name was Adam, and he changed my life in ways I’m still unraveling.
The One Who Saw Me
Adam and I met in high school, back when my world still operated within the structured rhythm of Latter-day Saint culture. It was a good life in many ways—predictable, safe, mapped out like a well-worn trail in the Wasatch Mountains I loved hiking as a kid. But if there was one word to describe 16-year-old Caleb, it would have been "careful." Careful not to disappoint. Careful not to ask too many questions. Careful not to step too far outside of what was expected.
Adam, on the other hand, was chaos in skinny jeans. He wasn’t LDS, which, in our suburban pocket of Salt Lake City, made him exotic all on its own. He had a mop of curly hair, a beat-up car that smelled vaguely of french fries and regret, and a mind that seemed constantly set on fire—for better or worse. He read books I’d never heard of, listened to music that sounded more like noise to me at first, and rarely filtered his opinions. He wasn’t rebellious in the stereotypical "bad boy" way, but in that quiet, subversive way of someone unapologetically being himself in a world that preferred conformity.
It was Adam who challenged me one afternoon—over greasy fries at a diner we loved—to defend what I believed about life, God, and the universe. At first, I was irritated. What kind of teenager quotes Nietzsche at a perfectly innocent lunch? But Adam wasn’t trying to poke holes in my faith or convert me to some brand of nihilism. He was trying to get me to think, to own my beliefs—or abandon them if they weren’t really mine.
“You’ve got a good brain, Caleb,” he said, sweeping stray crumbs into a pile with one hand, “but you’re on autopilot. Don’t you ever get tired of playing it safe?”
Admittedly, I didn’t appreciate the quote-worthy profundity of that statement until years later. At the time, all I could think about was how much mustard had ended up on his shirt.
What He Gave Me
Adam’s impact wasn’t like a thunderclap—it wasn’t loud, dramatic, or immediate. It unfurled over years, sometimes after long gaps where our lives took us in radically different directions. He dated a series of intimidatingly artsy girls, while I did my very best to adhere to more conventional dating norms (Can’t pass go; can’t collect $200 until you’ve successfully defined our relationship two dates in). He went out of state for college, while I stayed in Utah, polishing my academic halo in religious studies. And yet, every time we reconnected—over cheap coffee or even cheaper wine—it was like picking up a book where you’d left the bookmark.
Looking back, I realize what Adam gave me was permission. Permission to question. Permission to be unpolished, even messy. Permission to see the complexity in black-and-white questions. That might seem unsubstantial compared to, say, teaching me how to cook something en papillote (he never did—his cooking was terrible), but sometimes life doesn’t change because of grand moments. It changes because someone has the courage to nudge you off the trail and into uncharted woods.
I think that’s often the mistake we make when it comes to friendship. We expect fireworks, dramatic growth arcs like a Hollywood coming-of-age film. But the life-changing moments? They’re often small. They’re sharing a bowl of soggy fries with someone who pushes you to think harder and live truer.
What I Learned from Him
Here’s the tricky thing about life: you don’t always know the lessons you’re learning until long after the fact. At 17, I couldn’t have articulated how that friendship with Adam altered the course of who I was becoming. But years later, while standing in front of a classroom teaching a group how to craft personal essays, I recognized the fingerprints of that friendship all over my life.
From Adam, I learned three things:
1. Questions Are Just as Sacred as Answers.
Growing up, I mistakenly believed that faith and curiosity existed in opposition. I didn’t want to look too hard at the scaffolding of my beliefs for fear they might collapse. But Adam taught me that questions aren’t spiritual stumbling blocks—they’re building blocks. A real relationship with yourself, others, or even God, isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about learning to wrestle—the Jacob way if necessary.
2. Your Tribe Will Find You—If You Let Them See You.
Here’s the thing: Adam never asked me to change who I was. He just demanded I actually show up as myself. And that’s the scariest thing sometimes, isn’t it? To be seen—not the curated, perfectly filtered version of yourself, but the messy, mustard-on-your-shirt self. I often think back to those teenage years, wondering how my life might have turned out if I hadn’t had that one loud, curly-haired friend calling me out on autopilot living. Finding your tribe sometimes starts with one brave friend who dares to say, “Hey, I see more in you than you’re letting show right now.”
3. It’s Okay to Outgrow People—and Still Love Them.
Not every friendship is meant to last forever, and that’s okay. Adam and I kept in touch sporadically over the years, but our paths diverged. He moved to Seattle to work with a nonprofit, and I stayed in Salt Lake. The last time we met up feels like a lifetime ago. And yet, I carry so much of him with me still. Friendships, like love, don’t disappear when they end; they just leave echoes.
An Invitation
Here’s the thing about the friends who change us: they become part of the stories we carry forward. They weave themselves into our narratives, shaping not just who we are but also how we connect with others. My friendship with Adam wasn’t perfect—few are. But it gave me the foundation to build deeper, more authentic relationships, not only with the world, but also with myself.
So here’s my challenge to you: Take a moment to think about the Adams in your life—past or present. Who’s nudged you into becoming a fuller version of yourself? Who’s demanded you think harder, dream bigger, or laugh longer? And if that person hasn’t come along yet, maybe it’s time to step off the safe paths you’ve been treading. You never know—that stranger with too much mustard on their shirt might just end up being your campfire in the wilderness.
Because here’s the truth: life-changing friendships aren’t always loud or flashy. Sometimes, they’re just someone handing you a soggy fry and saying, “You can do better than this.”
