How I Found My People

The "Friendship Fantasy" and Its Plot Twists

Growing up in Beverly Hills, I thought finding my people would look like a Nora Ephron movie. You know the ones—where impossibly chic friends sip cappuccinos while tossing around zingers like it’s verbal ping-pong. My backdrop wasn’t far off: Friday nights with family at Shabbat dinners, glittery soirées my parents hosted for industry insiders, and a school where even pep rallies had publicists. But somewhere between the kosher chicken soup and the red carpet hobnobbing, I felt… off-script. Like I’d wandered into a movie where I didn’t quite fit the role I was supposed to play.

It wasn’t that I lacked friends. I had plenty. High school was a blur of group trips to Malibu and tearful discussions over SAT scores. College was dinner parties in dimly lit Downtown lofts and endless strategizing for film school projects. But those connections often felt like surfaces I couldn’t quite dive beneath. Real friendship—the messy, vulnerable, you-wouldn’t-believe-what-I-Googled-last-night kind—eluded me. And when you’ve internalized the myth that your tribe should magically appear by your mid-20s like co-stars cast by fate, wondering where they are can feel like failure.

The Day I Realized Being Myself Was Non-Negotiable

Here’s the not-so-glamorous truth: building your community is less like starring in "When Harry Met Sally" and more like piecing together IKEA furniture with no instructions and one extra screw. Mine began with a mortifying moment during grad school at UCLA. It was mid-seminar, and I accidentally let out a snort-laugh—one of those truly ugly, animalistic ones that causes heads to swivel.

“I think you just wrote the punchline to an episode of ‘Veep,’” someone whispered behind me.

I turned around, cheeks burning, and saw Leah, a scrappy screenwriter with caffeinated energy and giant hoop earrings. Later, over late-night Taco Bell (she ordered Chalupas, I insisted she was a heathen for not knowing what kugel was), we became fast friends. That was the start—realizing that the path to finding my people wasn’t paved with forced coolness or curating a likable persona. It was stumbling into connections with people who loved me, neuroses, snorts, and all.

What I Learned About Building a Tribe

For years, I approached friendships the way one might approach a first date: hyperaware, trying to gauge interest, censoring myself for fear of TMI-ing too soon. But here’s what I discovered: the people who are meant to stick around want the full mess that is you. My people didn’t care if I rambled about esoteric film trivia or said yes to hiking only to complain the whole way up (PSA: Runyon is not “easy”). They celebrated it.

Here’s what worked for me—and might just work for you, too:

  • Learn to lean into "awkward." The day I stopped trying to be a highlight reel and started giving “bloopers only” energy, life got infinitely better. Vulnerability is magnetic—it makes others feel safe to let their guards down too.
  • Dare to disagree. Authentic communities thrive on challenge, not co-signing. Leah and I debate everything from the merits of Spielberg’s golden years to why she thinks scallions in matzo ball soup are criminal (spoiler: she’s wrong).
  • Notice who asks follow-up questions. There’s nothing more exhilarating than realizing someone actually listened and—gasp—cares enough to dig deeper. These are the keepers.
  • Think of connection like dating. Build bridges gradually, not all-at-once. Your “soul friends” don’t necessarily emerge in one night of wine-fueled conversations.

Stop Searching, Start Cultivating

During a summer interning in New York (let’s romantically call it my “Sex and the City moment,” though it was more Dunkin’ runs than Cosmopolitans), I spent a lot of time trying to find my people at parties. I said yes to rooftop hangs, networking events, and even karaoke nights (a personal hellscape). Quickly, I learned that community isn’t at its best in a room full of strangers smiling politely under string lights. It’s in the quieter moments—the friend who helps you move, the late-night FaceTime when your brain spirals, the significant other who stocks your freezer with Trader Joe’s hash browns because, of course, they know your preferred panic food.

Finding your people is more “slow burn A24 indie” than “love-at-first-sight rom-com.” If you’re frustrated because you’re not surrounded by the Pinterest-perfect squad getting matching tattoos, take a deep breath. The good stuff—the meaningful, soul-deep connections—takes time and effort.

Finding New Layers in Old Places

One twist I didn’t expect? Some of my most meaningful friendships grew from relationships I’d initially written off as “surface-level.” A once-casual coworker at an internship blossomed into a safe space where I could vent about creative aspirations (and occasional panic over the price of avocados). An elementary school acquaintance became the friend who calls, unprompted, when the news feels overwhelming.

Sometimes, we overlook potential “people” because we box them into categories—“work friend,” “party friend,” “acquaintance from my Pilates class”—rather than inviting them to blend into something richer. Turns out, expanding your view and giving people a second look (or third!) is one of the simplest ways to find belonging.

A Few (Spiritual) Realities

I’d be lying if I didn’t credit my Jewish upbringing for grounding me in this whole process. Shabbat dinners growing up were about far more than brisket and gossip about the latest casting rumors. They centered around inclusion. “There’s always an open seat at the table,” my mom liked to remind us. Tribe-building, in its most sacred form, is about making space—sometimes for others, often for yourself.

Your People Are Out There

Spoiler alert: Once I relaxed and stopped squinting at life like a casting call for “best friends,” people started appearing in unexpected places. They showed up in dim coffee shops, in shared Ubers, through mutual friends of exes (really!), and at niche LA gatherings that required way too much valet money.

And maybe most importantly, I learned that finding my people wasn’t about volume. Some of us are blessed with ten million people who feel like home; others need two or three—but good ones. It’s not about how many chairs are filled around your table, it’s that they’re the right chairs.

So, if you’re still searching, here’s my advice: stop fixating on the table-size. Get clear about who you are, and then make space for people who match your energy. They’ll come. Probably when you least expect it, which sounds like a cheesy movie cliché but—and this is important—is entirely true.