It started with a hat. A ridiculous, floppy, wide-brimmed hat that she donned like she was starring in a Vogue editorial instead of standing on a dusty tennis court during Atlanta's most humid summer on record. My childhood best friend, Vivi, walked into my life with that hat perched on her curls and an unapologetic confidence I didn’t know how to bottle—but desperately wanted to. I was twelve and awkward in that way that only wearing headgear with braces while shopping in the juniors’ section at Dillard’s for back-to-school clothes will make you, and she was the polar opposite: magnetic, fearless, and dazzling to the point of being almost blinding.

Vivi taught me countless things over the years, but perhaps her greatest lesson came when I wore my heart on my sleeve for the first time and royally embarrassed myself. If you’re wondering whether this involves unrequited puppy love and an ill-conceived playlist jam-packed with boy band ballads, the answer is, of course, yes.

The Renaissance Woman Who (Unintentionally) Set the Standard

Vivi was a walking masterclass in charisma. She could waltz into any coffee shop (yes, even the pretentious ones that serve $17 lattes in reclaimed mason jars) and leave knowing the barista’s first pet’s name. To me, she was more than a best friend—she was Atlanta’s very own Serena Van Der Woodsen, minus the tabloid drama but keeping every ounce of glam. Yet somehow, in between all her varsity tennis tournaments, reciting Shakespearean sonnets for “fun,” and throwing themed movie nights worthy of Pinterest boards, Vivi made every single person feel seen.

More importantly, she had this quiet way of making me brave. In middle school, it meant convincing me to sing karaoke (badly) at a school dance when I swore my vocal talent lived somewhere between “yelling in frustration” and “half-hearted birthday singing.” Later, in college at Emory, it was coaxing me out of a ridiculous relationship that, truth be told, was more about nostalgia than connection.

Vivi had an infuriating way of always being right in a way I didn’t resent, which is, frankly, miraculous. But no moment captured her impact so vividly as her intervention in my first real brush with heartbreak.

The Playlist That Crushed (And Saved) Me

It was the summer before senior year of high school when I fell hard for Cooper Kennett. He of the tousled hair that belonged in a Hollister photoshoot and the dimples that appeared precisely whenever he smirked. Our mutual friends convinced me that he was flirting with me at group hangouts, so I did the thing every hopeless sixteen-year-old girl does: I spiraled.

At Vivi’s urging—or was it insistence?—I worked up the nerve to confess my feelings. “Go big or go home,” Vivi had said, wearing false confidence for both of us as we sprawled across the couch in her family’s immaculate sunroom. So, I crafted an elaborate plan, complete with a mixtape (OK, fine, it was a burned CD—technology tells time better than rings on a tree). The playlist was filled with the sappiest of boy band tracks, as if Westlife and ‘N Sync could bead together the words I was too afraid to say.

The problem was that Cooper…did not feel the same. And when I say he didn’t feel the same, I mean that a kind letdown would’ve been too much effort for him. Remember that scene in Legally Blonde where Elle Woods gets dumped by Warner at the restaurant? Now imagine that unfolding in the Memory Depot parking lot. But here’s the kicker—he hadn’t even listened to the CD. The heartbreak was swift and ruthless, like discovering your favorite brunch spot had permanently closed just as you were craving lemon ricotta pancakes.

I vividly remember falling apart in Vivi’s backyard, declaring friendships and love alike overrated. She grabbed me by the shoulders, peering into my tear-streaked, mascara-smeared face. In a tone bolder than her usual wit, she said, “Carrie, you let someone reject you? The audacity. You’re a limited edition Chanel bag, and Cooper Kennett can’t even spell haute couture.”

Lessons from a Friend Who Could Write Her Own Self-Help Book

From Vivi, I learned not only how to rebound but how to thrive. She taught me that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness—it’s a flex. And through my Cooper Kennett saga, she offered as many kernels of wisdom as she did ridiculous—and sometimes questionable—distraction tactics:

  1. Rejection says more about them than you. It sounds like a Hallmark card, but when Vivi said it, it landed differently. “Carrie, his taste is worse than knockoff Prada. Trust me, you’re better off.” Translation: Someone else’s inability to appreciate you doesn’t diminish your worth.

  2. Don’t let anyone dim your sparkle. Vivi was a human disco ball, unapologetically bright in a world that wanted to dull people down. From her, I learned to keep being boldly myself—even when it felt risky and especially in the face of those who pretended not to care.

  3. Bad playlists make great stories. Humiliation eventually turns into humor, sometimes immediately with the help of the right friend. Vivi still brings up “Mixtape-Gate” to this day—now, we laugh until we cry, which eases the sting of what once felt like the end of the world.

But most important of all, Vivi turned what felt like my most embarrassing defeat (because let’s be honest: unreciprocated love stings harder when it involves unsolicited dance pop tracks) into a building block. “If someone isn’t lining up camp chairs outside your metaphorical concert, Carrie, they don’t deserve a ticket,” she said.

Becoming My Own Vivi

Vivi has moved on to bigger adventures—she lives in New York now, where she runs a theater company and wears her floppy hats proudly, even in the busiest parts of the city (likely while sipping some herbal tea concoction I can’t pronounce). But her lessons still live with me. I could fill entire novels with her wisdom—not the high-brow advice of glossy magazines but the kind that feels less prescriptive and more like a knowing nod from a friend who has seen you at your ugliest (and is still willing to hold your hand).

Now, when I face the intimidating terrain of relationships, I channel her courage. That ferocity. And yes, maybe, her ability to make wildly bold choices in hats. In a world that tells us we’re better off as palatable versions of ourselves, Vivi reminds me to dare people to keep up—or get left behind. That kind of authenticity in a friend? Life-changing.

So here’s my advice, which is really more hers: Don’t settle for people who don’t listen to your mixtapes (literal or metaphorical). Because trust me, the friend who cheers your loudest will show you how to turn heartbreak into a plot twist worth writing about.