The Friend Who Changed My Life
When Beyoncé Sang, "Let Me Cater to You"—She Wasn't Talking About Maurice
Growing up in Beaumont, Texas—a town where Friday night football was essentially a religion and the refinery haze hung in the air like a prelude to adulthood—I assumed friendships would always be transactional. You helped your neighbor fix a flat because they’d let you borrow their tools the week before. You supported your cousin’s garage band because they’d babysat your little brother for free. Everyone kept score, even if silently.
Then came Maurice. Or as I like to call him, Beyoncé in human form. Not because he could sing (he couldn’t) or because he strutted everywhere like he had a wind machine trailing him (he did), but because he demanded a standard of loyalty and love that no one else around me had ever dared to expect—or give. Maurice, unapologetically, was the friend who changed my life.
We met freshman year of college. I was the skinny sociology major trying not to drown in imposter syndrome, and Maurice was the theater kid in the yellow beret, commanding group performances during orientations like he was auditioning for the role of “Most Unforgettable Person You’ll Ever Meet." Spoiler alert: He got the part.
The Gospel of "What Are You Hiding For?"
Maurice wasn’t just bold—he was fluorescent. He rolled out of bed in outfits that would make the color wheel blush, and he painted his nails in shades I didn’t even know existed (one time he showed up with this glossy jade green he called “Black Excellence With a Hint of Shade”). When he was around, pretending to be invisible wasn’t an option.
I remember sitting with him in the shady corner of the campus café one Thursday. I had been moping for weeks about my budding realization that, yes, I liked men. Yes, it explained everything from my crush on Usher back in middle school to the way I used to memorize Luther Vandross lyrics like scripture. No, I had told no one.
Maurice, sipping his iced coffee with all the sass of a Real Housewife in her confessionals, leaned over mid-sip and said, “So, when are you gonna stop acting like a straight dude trapped in an R&B music video? You’re gay, baby. And that’s fabulous.”
My mouth nearly dropped into my sad sandwich. Maurice continued without so much as pausing to let me stammer a response: “If you stay in the closet too long, it’s gonna get musty in there. And I have asthma. Come on out.”
He followed up with a speech that was half Oprah empowerment and half E. Lynn Harris prose. “Baby, living authentically isn’t just about you. When you love yourself out loud, you’re giving permission for other people to do the same.”
At that moment, I thought Maurice had just called me out for free entertainment—and I wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t realize the seed he planted would take root in every decision I made after.
Maurice taught me to stop apologizing for my life and start building it unapologetically. Eventually, I told Maurice what I hadn’t yet dared to tell myself: that I was tired of dimming my light to make other people comfortable.
Lessons in Radical Friendship
Here’s the thing about Maurice—he wasn’t just a friend. He was a full-blown movement. Being with him was like joining a one-person self-love parade. And I don’t mean that in some cheesy “he glowed and everyone loved him” way. Maurice wasn’t perfect. He once dramatically quit a group project because someone critiqued his "vision board of feelings" (long story). But Maurice had this way of showing up for others that made you feel seen in a way that stretched beyond surface-level compliments.
Take my 22nd birthday party. I had announced it would be “lowkey.” Maurice showed up with glittering balloons, homemade cupcakes with quotes from Baldwin scrawled in icing, and what can only be described as a mini-marathon playlist of Luther Vandross and Beyoncé duets. When I asked why he’d gone so hard, especially knowing historically my family had a “buy a cake from Kroger and call it a day” vibe, he said: “Because you deserve the brightest celebration. And sometimes, people don’t give you what you deserve. So, you gotta make sure you get it some other way.”
That moment still guts me. Even now, in my 30s, Maurice’s presence reminds me to pivot toward the people who celebrate me, not just tolerate me.
Maurice and the 2 AM Cry Hotline
At this point, you might be thinking Maurice floated through life as a celestial being sprinkled in glitter. No. Maurice was also human enough to ride shotgun in my worst moments.
There’s nothing like a 2 AM breakdown after your first real heartbreak to sort out the friends from, well, the acquaintances pretending to be friends. When my last boyfriend at the time—a smart but emotionally distant law student—broke things off because, in his words, “Our vibrations don’t align anymore,” I called Maurice and sobbed about how love wasn’t real and maybe I should start hoarding cats.
Maurice showed up in pajamas, armed with a pint of chocolate ice cream and the kind of advice you’d expect from a therapist with better one-liners. He didn’t let me justify my ex’s breakup reasoning or wallow endlessly. Maurice was loving but firm: “Listen, I know you’re hurting, but that man was never going to thrive in your orbit. You were at Beyoncé level; he was still trying to signal boost Survivor-era Destiny’s Child. You’ve got to find someone vibrating at your frequency.”
He then made me write down five things I loved about myself (a strength he had honed over years of rallying weary theater students during bad rehearsals). That list stayed taped on my mirror for months. And over time, as cringy as the words “vibrational alignment” start to sound after repeat use, Maurice was right.
Maurice’s Legacy—and What He Left Me With
Maurice and I don’t see each other every day anymore. After college, he spent years bouncing between cities chasing creative projects before landing in New York, where he’s flourishing. We still talk on the phone at least once a month, and every time, I walk away from our conversations feeling recharged.
But “Maurice Energy,” as I call it, lingers in my life constantly. I’ve learned entire lessons about how to show up for the people I care about from his example—not by playing small, but by affirming loudly. My friendships, my relationships, even the way I carry myself in professional spaces—it’s all brighter because of him.
Friendship isn’t about keeping score or trading favors. It’s about who shows up. It’s about who sees you before you’ve fully figured yourself out and still says, “You deserve to take up space.”
Taking the Maurice Challenge — For Yourself and Others
Maurice is proof that sometimes, the greatest gift you can give someone is a radical level of love and belief. The kind of love that sees through someone’s pain, insecurities, or half-hearted excuses like, “Maybe it’s not the right time to be myself,” and instead tells them: “Baby, when ISN’T the right time to thrive?”
If you’re lucky enough to have a Maurice in your life, consider this your reminder to text them. Tell them how much they’ve shaped you. And then, challenge yourself to be a Maurice for someone else. Throw the extra colors on their celebration, be their go-to at 2 AM, speak life into them before they even have the words for what they need.
Because those friendships? The unapologetic, show-up-and-shine kind of friendships? They change lives. Mine’s the proof.
