The Friend Who Changed My Life

I once told my best friend that she had all the subtlety of a Carnival parade—and I meant it as a compliment. Angela Chisholm waltzed into my life with the kind of energy that could turn a Wednesday into a cause for celebration. She had this way of talking that made you feel like you’d been inducted into an inside joke, and within five minutes, you’d forgotten what you were mad or stressed about. Meeting her was like warming your hands next to a fire you didn’t even realize you needed.

But Angela wasn’t just a mood-lifter or a good time—though, trust me, her Instagram stories are proof she could party anyone under the table. To me, she became the embodiment of what it means to actively shape your life and relationships. She wasn’t afraid to challenge me, to call out my nonsense, and, most importantly, to rewrite the tired script I’d been living by. Here’s how Angela Chisholm—and her larger-than-life spirit—changed everything for me.

The Lecture I Never Wanted (But Desperately Needed)

Angela and I met during my first year at Georgetown. I was freshly minted from D.C. public schools, stepping awkwardly into a world where prep-school kids threw around phrases like “summered in the Hamptons.” Meanwhile, I was just a kid from Northeast trying to figure out how to turn my MetroAccess card into the kind of cool status symbol these people seemed born with. For months, I kept my head down, trying to crack the code of acceptance and blending in. Angela was the exact opposite.

I still remember the first time she saw through my little cover story. We were in the library—me hunched over a policy paper, her editing a short story for a creative writing class—and I complained to her that I’d been "too busy studying" to join the usual Friday night scene. She put down her pen, tilted her head, and said, “You know, you can’t out-hustle loneliness, right?”

What kind of Hallmark wisdom was this? But she wasn’t finished.

“Marcus, I get it. You think you have to work yourself into the ground because you won the golden ticket to this place. But what’s the point if you’re miserable and no one even knows who you really are?”

Cue the internal record scratch. See, Angela had the audacity to suggest I didn’t have my life as “figured out” as I always claimed. At first, I rolled my eyes, but her words lingered, insistent. It turns out, Angela had nailed my usual pattern: use busyness, intellectual arrogance, or humor to deflect and avoid vulnerability. She pushed me to think outside of that box.

A Masterclass in Connection

Now, Angela could be a little, well, extra. (This is the same woman who threw a surprise "Halfway to Graduation" party complete with themed cocktails—tall glasses of “Major Decisions” and “Problem Set Punch.”) But she also had this uncanny ability to connect with people. Watching her in action was like marveling at Beyoncé in her prime—not a single false note.

At parties, she made strangers laugh in three seconds flat. In class, she never hesitated to ask the question hanging awkwardly in everyone’s minds. She taught me that connection isn’t about smooth lines or carefully crafted facades; it’s about daring to show up as your full, flawed, and earnest self.

Once, she found out our friend Malik was going through a rough breakup. Without hesitation, she walked into his dorm room with ginger tea, a playlist labeled “No Tears Left to Cry (Breakup Edition),” and nonstop commentary about how his ex’s taste in sneakers was tragic. She was that kind of friend—disarming and honest. You couldn’t feel sad around Angela because she made sure you remembered the parts of yourself worth celebrating.

I found myself trying to emulate her example. Slowly but surely, I peeled back the protective layers I’d built up over time. I called my family more often. I told stories from my childhood instead of relying on polished anecdotes about internships or academic grinds. People began responding in unexpected ways, opening up parts of their lives that I wouldn’t have seen otherwise. Angela made me realize that connection, both romantic and platonic, starts with being vulnerable enough to go first.

The “Flirting is Negotiating” Theory

Angela wasn’t just my connection coach—she was also my go-to guru when it came to anything romantic. I’d always been the guy who overthought my every move. I once Googled “books on charisma” before asking someone on a first date. (I still cringe.)

Angela, of course, saw right through this. “Marcus,” she said, waving her acrylic nails like some dating professor from a Netflix rom-com, “flirting is just negotiating—but make it fun.” She broke it down further:

  1. Know Your Value: Angela believed people perform better in relationships when they know what makes them them. Whether it’s your dry humor or the way you hum Bob Marley while folding laundry, recognize that you’re bringing something unique to the table.

  2. Get Curious: “Stop rehearsing lines in your head,” she told me. “Ask her about her actual favorite movie—because nobody’s favorite is ‘The Godfather,’ no matter what she said on her profile.” Curiosity, Angela said, was the foundation of sincerity.

  3. Find the Joy: Her philosophy was that flirting should, at its core, feel joyful. “This isn’t a Senate hearing, Marcus,” she teased after I recounted another overanalyzed exchange. “Have fun with it!”

She didn’t just give this advice; she lived by it. Once, she got a number from a guy at the farmer’s market by joking that his tote bag screamed “responsible kale dad energy.” Reader, they dated for an entire semester.

When Friendship Becomes a Mirror

I’d like to say I repaid Angela’s wisdom with equal parts charm and guidance, but Angela never needed much from me beyond authenticity. Still, there were moments when I got to remind her of her own favorite mantra: “Show up.” Like the night she found out she didn’t get the MFA acceptance she’d been banking on. She came over with the saddest plantain chips I’d ever seen and a big claim: “Maybe I’m just not good enough.”

It was like watching a lion doubt its roar. But for once, I got to be her anchor. I reminded her that she’d helped me open up, take risks, and build deeper connections—and she could do the same for herself. “You’re Angela freakin’ Chisholm,” I said. “The party doesn’t start until you walk in, remember?”

The Takeaway

Angela taught me that friendship—true, ride-or-die friendship—isn’t just about having someone to text memes to at midnight. It’s about finding someone who shows you how to shed your insecurities, bet on your own value, and open up to the world. Angela didn’t just change my life; she gave me tools to change it myself.

So, here’s my challenge to you, dear reader: Who’s your Angela? And more importantly, how are you showing up for your friends (or future friends) in the way they might need? If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Relationships, be they romantic or platonic, thrive on showing up—with energy, curiosity, and the audacity to believe you’re enough just as you are.

And if you’re lucky, your Angela might even bring a bag of tragic plantain chips to remind you that, despite all odds, life—and connection—can still taste sweet.