She left a sunhat at my place.
That’s how it started. A floppy, oversized sunhat—think Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give. It was tucked away in the corner of my apartment, a relic from an impromptu beach day. I thought about giving it back, but with her, you never knew when you’d see her again. Not in a bad way—Lisa just existed in orbit. Always buzzing around, weaving in and out of people’s lives, leaving behind little pieces of herself—sometimes a sunhat, sometimes something much bigger.
Turns out, Lisa was the friend who changed my life.
The Meet-Cute (But Make It Wholesome)
Lisa and I met during my tumultuous early twenties. I was fresh out of university, navigating the harsh realities of Vancouver rent prices and a professional existential crisis. She showed up at a mutual friend’s dinner party—late, carrying a baguette (unwrapped, naturally)—and just planted herself in my life like she belonged there all along. Within minutes, she was leading a debate about which Rupaul’s Drag Race contestants deserved their crowns, while seamlessly redirecting the conversation toward asking what ideas everyone had for their dream future. One of those people you couldn't help but lean in toward, because she made the mundane feel cinematic.
Lisa radiated a kind of energy I could only describe as chaotic confidence. She wasn’t a perfect person—far from it—but she owned her messy edges in ways that felt magnetic. She was the first person to tell me that being boring was the only unforgivable crime in life. “So don’t be boring,” she had said, one olive balanced precariously on a piece of pita bread, her chin tilted like she was already seeing your future.
And somewhere in that whirlwind of philosophy, pita bread, and Drag Race, Lisa decided I was interesting.
The Wake-Up Call I Didn’t Know I Needed
Here’s the thing about Lisa: she didn’t tell you to change your life; she nudged you toward it. Like convincing you to bungee jump but only after she’s already slid you into the harness.
I’ll never forget the day I came whining to her about my job. At the time, I was working in social media marketing for an environmental nonprofit. On paper, it sounded fulfilling, but in practice, I was drowning in scheduling posts and infographics that made me feel like the human equivalent of a tired raccoon. I wanted to write, but I didn’t have the courage to say it out loud, much less chase it.
Lisa didn’t do the whole “you should quit your job” thing. No, she set me up like a scene in a romcom. She invited me to one of her infamous creative “salons,” a mishmash of artists, writers, and musicians converging at her tiny Mount Pleasant apartment. First, she poured us wine in mismatched mugs, then she cornered me and a few others: “Alright, everyone. Your mission—tell me the thing you absolutely have to do in this life.”
I froze. The room buzzed with strangers giving unexpectedly raw answers—writing screenplays, designing lingerie lines, painting whales in oils (so Vancouver). When it was my turn, I mumbled, “I want to write stories.”
Lisa’s whole face lit up. “Finally!” she exclaimed, like she had been waiting for this moment her entire life.
Lessons From a Life-Tweaker
Lisa taught me the art of micro-bravery: the tiny risks that stack together and eventually change everything. Not to be dramatic, but I credit her with kickstarting my slow transformation from neurotic overthinker to someone who occasionally says, “Yeah, why not?”
Here are the three big lessons I learned from Lisa—and, by default, the friend we all secretly crave:
- It’s Okay to Change Directions (Again and Again)
Lisa had a philosophy: if you hate it, stop doing it. She quit jobs like other people quit bad TV shows—decisively and with zero guilt. “It’s not failure,” she’d say. “It’s recalibration.” Watching her rewrite her narrative again and again taught me that no one holds you hostage to a bad choice but you.
Case in point: quivering with fear, I eventually left that stable-but-draining marketing job. I started freelancing. Then, I got this gig writing stories for spaces like this one. And suddenly, I wasn’t just trudging through life anymore—I was living it.
- There’s Power in Being Unapologetically Yourself
Once, Lisa showed up to a first date in a sequined kimono. The man had suggested somewhere casual—a pub, maybe?—but Lisa shrugged, “I’m a sequins kind of person. Can’t hide that.” That confidence was intoxicating. She reminded me that putting my whole self out there—awkward, Hong Kong-born-Canadian hybrid and all—wasn’t something to fear, but the only way to find people who truly get you.
(Side note: He hated the kimono. There was no third date. Lisa was delighted.)
- Your Circle Shapes You—So Curate It
Lisa was unrelenting about surrounding herself with people who inspired her. She’d cut through small talk in five seconds flat and get straight to the heart of what lit people up. “Find your corner of weirdos,” she once told me while we danced in a dive bar. That advice has stuck with me. I’ve since spent less time worrying about pleasing the wrong people and more time cherishing the right ones.
The Moment I Realized I’d Changed
Last year, I found myself where I didn’t expect to be: on a solo flight to Tofino. One-way ticket. I’d given myself a “writing sabbatical” in the name of adventure and deadlines-sans-distractions. It hit me halfway through that turbulent Seaplane ride—twenty-something Willow never would’ve done this. Old me would have drowned in anxiety, Googling “how to know when you’re ruining your life.”
But there I was, unflustered, armed with little more than a carry-on bag and a notebook. Lisa had snuck into my DNA.
The Takeaway: Be Somebody’s Lisa
Not everything Lisa ever did worked out. Her bold choices weren’t foolproof—she made plenty of bad calls, cried over botched ideas, and occasionally spiraled with zero grace. But she stayed in motion, unapologetically herself, and upgraded everyone in her gravitational pull.
We all need that friend. The one who lets you believe, even briefly, that you deserve more than the bare minimum. The friend who doesn’t preach but gently shoves you off the metaphorical cliff when you’re too scared to jump. The kind of friend who, post-beach day, leaves behind a ridiculous sunhat as if to remind you: life is better when it’s a little messy.
And maybe you don’t just need a Lisa. Maybe you should be a Lisa. Drop the baguette, pour the wine, and remind your friends they’re meant for something larger than survival. After all, isn’t that what connection is about?
Let’s leave each other changed. It beats boring.
