It started with a daring handstand. I was eight, impossibly shy, and entirely convinced that the monkey bars were meant for looking at, not touching. But then came Claire—barefoot, hair wild from the ocean breeze—effortlessly flipping upside down on the playground like she was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. “Your turn!” she yelled, grinning, while my stomach sank somewhere into my well-worn sandals.
Claire Murphy wasn’t just my new neighbor; she was everything I wasn’t. Bold, loud, and a little bit reckless, Claire made friends like most people collect pennies—fast and plentifully. She didn’t care about rules, appearance, or, apparently, gravity. And for reasons I still don’t quite understand, she chose me, the girl who always walked in single file and straightened her placemat before eating, to join her world.
That first head-spinning day launched a lifelong friendship that, quite literally, turned my well-structured little life on its head.
The Spark of Chaos: Learning to Take Risks
Claire wasn’t the type to tiptoe into things—she cannonballed in, dragging me behind her like an unwilling accomplice. In no time, we were sneaking off to wade through tide pools we weren’t supposed to touch and daring to jump off the dock when we knew our mothers would fret about jellyfish.
For someone raised in a home where our sea captain ancestors graced museum walls with their austere portraits, taking risks was unfamiliar territory. I grew up in a world of “let’s think this through” and laminated charts of acceptable household chores. Claire introduced me to “let’s do it before we talk ourselves out of it.”
Much later in life, I realized this ethos applied far beyond coasting through salty waves on a found canoe or pulling off midnight lobster roll missions (don’t ask). When I found myself stalled out in adulthood, whether over a career change or the terrifying first date jitters, it was Claire's voice in my head: “You can wait until you’re ready—or you can live first and figure it out later.”
Practical tip from Claire: The next time you're tempted to overthink something—whether it’s introducing yourself to someone you’re drawn to or signing up for salsa classes solo—commit before your brain talks you out of it. Trust me, you’ll grow from it (or, at the very least, end up with one heck of a story).
Claire Wisdom #2: A Masterclass in Emotional Honesty
Let me paint a picture. I’m thirteen. My first “romantic heartbreak” involved a boy named Drew, who spent an entire school dance ignoring me in favor of the soda stand. I cried into my pillow for a week—which, let’s face it, was overkill, even by adolescent standards.
Claire’s response? Marching into my room, throwing my damp tissues aside, and launching into an impromptu monologue that included a pitch-perfect “mock Drew voice,” an explanation of why middle school boys never deserved that much emotional energy, and a lesson on not second-guessing your feelings.
“You’re allowed to feel disappointed,” she said, munching on stolen salt-water taffy. “Just don’t set up camp there.”
This approach—acknowledging emotions without getting stuck—has served me in every relationship since. Claire wasn’t one to play coy with her feelings, whether basking in joy or venting about the annoying cousin who borrowed her bike and then ran it into a bush. Her honesty taught me there’s no shame in messy emotions. Sharing them, rather than stuffing them into the metaphorical broom closet, makes life clearer, relationships stronger, and your mental load lighter.
Feeling something? Say it. Hearing something real from someone else? Lean into it. Vulnerability may not always wrap things in the neat bow we crave, but man, is it worth the risk.
Practical Tip from Claire: Next time you’re inclined to downplay your feelings, challenge yourself to “go there.” As Claire used to say: “Stop saying you’re fine when you’re not. No one wins that game.” It’s true in relationships, friendships, and even with yourself.
The Quiet, Steady Kindness of Showing Up
What surprised people most about Claire, though, wasn’t her boldness or humor. It came from the ways she quietly showed up—no fanfare, no expectation of thanks. The first time my family cat died, Claire sat on my porch for hours, just humming to herself and playing with the threads of our old canvas cushions. Once, when I was swamped with a mountain of college applications, she walked five miles to surprise me with peppermint hot chocolate, plopping it down on my desk like she was delivering a life-saving serum.
For someone who thrived on spontaneity and chaos, Claire had an amazing ability to offer quiet support when it mattered most. She would joke that being there for your people doesn’t require a reason, a calendar, or even an invite—just an understanding that some moments are meant to be shared.
It’s a lesson I think about often, all these years later. Whether you’re navigating a romantic partnership or helping out a friend, love (both platonic and otherwise) comes down to one cored truth: showing up for each other, even and especially for the boring stuff.
Practical Tip from Claire: If someone you care about mentions a bad day, remember to follow up. Text, call, drop off the bakery item they love most—anything that tells them, “Hey, I heard you, and I’ve got your back.”
The Never-Ending Impact
Years after Claire and I first met, life did its thing: it carried us apart in some ways, as new cities and jobs planted us in different worlds. Still, her presence remains indelible in every nook of my life, like the faint salt smell in a seashell collection I can’t quit adding to.
Every friendship, after all, teaches us something—a tilt of the world we might not have seen otherwise. Claire taught me not only how to jump from the metaphorical dock but how to do it with humor, emotion, and a sense of good-natured chaos that’s stayed with me ever since.
So, to the friend who changes your life? Hold onto them however you can—tight but not too tight. Let their impact wash through you and ebb back into the world as light for others. After all, a ripple is just a wave given the right space.
