It all started with a bowl of guacamole. Not just any guacamole, mind you—the kind made fresh in a molcajete, with perfectly mashed avocados, a squeeze of lime, and a generous hit of cilantro. I was sitting at a too-small patio table somewhere in Albuquerque, staring across from Sierra, a newly minted friend who, unbeknownst to me, was about to rearrange my whole outlook on life.

If you’ve ever met someone who makes you feel seen for the first time (like, really seen), you’ll know the precise electric charge I felt that day. Sierra had this magnetic blend of confidence and warmth—think the charisma of Dolly Parton infused with the grounded calm of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Around her, you felt both soothed and inspired. So much of who I am today—my relationships, my creative pursuits, even how I carry myself—traces back to her and the handful of years we spent inseparably tangled together, two weird little puzzle pieces that just fit.

Let me tell you the story of the friend who changed my life.

The Art of Being Unapologetically Yourself

Before Sierra, I was proficient at being a people-pleaser. It’s practically the default setting for someone who grows up the sensitive artsy kid in a small-ish town. You compensate for standing out by molding yourself to the preferences of others: Sure, I love country music! Absolutely, let’s go to that party full of strangers! I’ll date him, even though we have the chemistry of boiled cabbage! Toeing the line became second nature.

But Sierra? Sierra was allergic to pretending. She wore her heart on her sleeve and marched to her own beat—and somehow managed to look effortless doing it. She had no patience for that watered-down version of myself I’d been carrying through life. One time, after I spent twenty minutes rambling about accommodating a flaky acquaintance, she just interrupted with: “Lila. Why are you twisting yourself into a balloon poodle for her? You’re not a party trick.” And, you know, she wasn’t wrong.

Her authenticity rubbed off on me over time, as it does when you closely coexist with someone. She pushed me to own my quirks unapologetically: the fact that I sometimes get emotional watching sunsets, that I’d rather spend the day sketching alone than making small talk, that I hate coffee but pretend to like it in social settings (blasphemy in New Mexico, I know). Sierra taught me that the things you try to hide are often the things that make your relationships feel real—whether romantic or platonic. And let’s be honest: being yourself is a whole lot less exhausting than being a finely edited version of someone else.

Showing Up (Even When You Don’t Have It All Together)

One particularly bad breakup—the kind that feels like your heart has been put through a paper shredder—Sierra showed up to my apartment uninvited. I’d been lying on my couch for two days in a haze of Kleenex and existential dread, binge-watching Jane Austen adaptations like they were some kind of emotional CPR device. Sierra walked in, looked at me, and said (deadpan): “Well, no one’s proposing today.” Then she plopped down, passed me a jar of peanut butter, and didn’t leave until I could laugh about something—anything, really.

That moment was so Sierra. She wasn’t the type to offer clichéd platitudes or try to “fix” you. What made her special was her unspoken refusal to let you flail alone. She’d show up, flawed and messy, and hold the space you needed until you were ready to piece yourself together. Over time, she taught me that being there for someone—and letting others show up for you—isn’t about having the perfect words or wearing the right emotional toolkit on your belt. It’s about your presence. It’s about showing someone, in the simplest way possible: You matter, even when you’re at your most unlovable.

Permission to Be Ambitious

If there’s one thing I learned from Sierra, it’s that passion is contagious. She burned brightly—figuratively, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d glowed in the dark—and she wanted you to find what made you burn, too.

She once told me she’d decided to run a marathon after watching a particularly poignant Nike ad. “I mean, sure, all I had was a bad pair of sneakers and zero stamina,” she admitted years later, “but you don’t wait around for permission to be great, right?” That line has stayed looping in my head like an Ariana Grande song ever since. It shifted something in me. Like many people, I’d been scared of ambition, of what it meant to announce to the world—or even myself—that I wanted big things. Publishing my first collection of short stories? Finally leaving that dud of a relationship? Speaking up when I wanted more? Each little step of courage, Sierra had a hand in.

Ambition doesn’t have to wear the loud badge of career goals or fame; sometimes ambition just looks like crafting a life that feels true to you. Sierra gave me permission to ask myself what truly mattered, which translated in unexpected ways to every relationship I’ve had since. She firmly believed that the spark of a meaningful connection starts with you knowing your own fire.

How Sierra Changed the Way I Love

Sierra and I grew apart eventually—life will do that, scattering people into new cities, relationships, priorities. But she remains this glittering thread in my personal tapestry, a reminder of the power of a serendipitous, soul-shifting friendship.

She redefined love for me—not the capital-R Romantic kind (though she certainly helped me clean house in that department), but the everyday kind of love that shows up in the small, sturdy spaces. Love, I learned, isn’t about finding the perfect words or playing roles or adhering to scripts. It’s about tiny acts of care: making time for someone when you didn’t think you had it, calling them out when they need it, building them up even when they can’t yet see what’s possible.

The way Sierra moved in the world influenced my dating life, too. I became pickier—not in a bad way, but in a boundary-honoring, room-for-growth way. I didn’t want people who crossed their fingers at my weird idiosyncrasies; I wanted the ones who folded them into the mix. I wanted the kind of partnership that feels like a mutual construction project—creativity and heart poured into something you both believe in. If my marriage today feels like a cozy adobe house with ever-expanding rooms, it’s because I stood still long enough to find someone who made me feel the way Sierra did: seen, celebrated, and just the tiniest bit braver.

The Takeaway

If your takeaway here is that everyone needs a Sierra, you’re wrong. What you need is to be a Sierra—unapologetic about who you are and ambitious about what lights your fire, but maybe also the kind of person who shows up to a hard day unannounced with peanut butter and a tiny joke. Relationships, in every sense, are about building something meaningful, whether you’re drawing boundaries, embracing vulnerability, or simply learning to exist in this big, messy vortex of humanity.

And if you’re lucky enough to already have a Sierra? Hold them close. Let them remind you what love and friendship look like at their most expansive. And maybe—just maybe—make them some good guacamole. Trust me, it’s transformative.