The One Who Showed Me How to Stay

Everything I knew about friendship started with water.

I grew up in a place where friendships often ebbed and flowed like the waves lapping at the dock of our family’s small resort in Coeur d’Alene. Out-of-state tourists would arrive with their sunscreen and high expectations, and by the end of the week, they’d leave with sunburns, Polaroids, and promises to keep in touch. You don’t need me to tell you how that went.

Maybe that’s why, for most of my childhood, I treated friendships like I treated Idaho summers: beautiful, fleeting, and not worth unpacking the emotional luggage for. I thought everything and everyone was temporary, and to be honest, I liked it that way. Stability felt boring.

And then, Christine happened.

Let me set the scene: It was my junior year of college at the University of Montana. I’d just erupted from a messy breakup, the kind that leaves you incapable of walking past any coffee shop you once visited together without spiraling into a 20-minute existential crisis. I felt untethered, a bit like a helium balloon at a birthday party no one asked for.

Enter Christine: five-foot-nine, with hair that always looked like she’d just emerged from a perfectly-timed breeze, and an Oregonian accent that somehow made the word “pillow” longer than it needed to be. She was a new transfer student, sharp as a whip in Environmental Policy, but I first met her during a heated dorm-room debate over whether or not grilled cheese sandwiches should be classified as melts (for the record, they shouldn’t).

Christine and I became fast friends, bonding over our shared love of trail snacks and Bruce Springsteen vinyls. But this isn’t just a story about someone being fun to hang out with. No, Christine didn’t just change my life because she introduced me to backcountry camping or baked me cookies during finals week. She changed the way I approached every friendship, relationship, and connection going forward.

She Taught Me That Showing Up Matters

Christine was like the human equivalent of those “break in case of emergency” glass boxes—you always knew she’d be there in a crisis. She had this uncanny ability to detect, even over text, when I needed someone. Like that time I panicked over whether I’d chosen the wrong major and wanted to drop out to become an eco-tour guide in Alaska (precarious in hindsight), Christine showed up on my dorm doorstep with sushi takeout and a list:
- Reasons Avery Is Incapable of Failure
- Adventures We Can Have Without Dropping Out
- Names I Won’t Let You Give Your Alaskan Tour Business

If love languages apply to friendships, hers was clearly Words of Affirmation. Mine? Half-eaten bags of trail mix.

Before Christine, I used to play it cool, secretly believing that wanting or needing someone too much would make me “clingy.” After Christine? I realized being wanted isn’t clingy, it’s connection. Who knew? Did everyone else in the world already know? Christine showed me that real friends don’t accidentally drift away in the breeze. They show up for the big stuff and the tiny moments.

Takeaway: If you’ve ever downplayed how much you care for a friend out of fear you’ll come off too strong, stop. Call them. Invite them over for sushi. Or better yet, tell them they’re the human equivalent of an anchor—and mean it.

She Knew When to Call Me Out

I don’t mean the Instagram-caption kind of “calling out.” I mean the real deal.

There was one time I vented to Christine for an hour about how horrible my ex was because he had refused to text first in our final months dating. “I just don’t understand why he didn’t care enough to reach out!” I whimpered, dramatically clutching my almond milk chai latte because, naturally, I was main character-ing all the way.

Christine listened in silence. She wasn’t good at placating silence—her eyebrows always gave her away. Finally, she sighed. “Avery, babe. You also stopped texting him.”

Ouch. But fair.

Unlike your average rom-com sidekick, Christine wasn’t afraid to turn a mirror back on me, even when I didn’t like what I saw. She introduced the idea that holding others accountable starts with holding yourself accountable. She wasn’t cruel about it though (well, except about my inability to spell “reminisce,” which she still roasts me for). She understood that sometimes, honesty is the ultimate kindness.

Takeaway: True friends don’t just validate your feelings—they widen your perspective. Find those people, even if they occasionally ruffle your feathers. Bonus points if they do it right before your second chai latte.

She Made Being a ‘Settler’ Feel Brave

Christine had this phrase she tossed around casually, like it was obvious: “Some people are wanderers, and some are settlers.”

For all my flitting about Northern Idaho, I’d always thought staying in one place, one job, one friendship too long made you small or stagnant. In dating, I craved romantic escapades across Portland dive bars, channeling something vaguely Nora Ephron-esque. It didn’t quite work; one guy curled forward to eat his ramen like a velociraptor and ghosted me the next day.

Christine, though? She was a settler. She nurtured things, invested in people and places deeply. She stayed. I saw this most clearly when her mom got sick our senior year, and despite all her dreams of joining the Peace Corps after graduation, Christine moved back to Salem and stepped up where she was needed.

It wasn’t just brave—it was beautiful.

Our friendship didn’t fade despite the distance. Christine still texts me every week with voice memos about her dog or niche TikToks she thinks I’ll love. She taught me it’s not the geography of a connection that matters—it’s the momentum and the care.

Takeaway: Staying and investing in relationships—friendships, romance, or otherwise—isn’t settling; it’s deepening. It’s the difference between an Instagram highlight reel and real life.

She Was the Friend Who Helped Me Find Me

Christine wasn’t just an anchor; she was the lighthouse, too. She made me realize the person I wanted to be wasn’t a constantly-moving, distraction-chasing blur. I wanted to invest deeply. In places, in people, in the connections that mattered.

I eventually went back to Coeur d’Alene after grad school, turning that lakeside town into the backdrop of my writing—and my life. Christine’s voice echoed in my mind the whole time, reminding me that growing roots isn’t a limitation. It’s a legacy.

So, if you’re reading this and thinking about your Christine—the friend who showed up when no one else did, called you out when you needed it, and reminded you to live as deeply as you love—shoot them a text. Or better yet, a handwritten note.

Let them know they didn’t just change what your life looked like. They probably saved it. And let them know, too, that according to you, grilled cheese isn’t a melt. Some things are simply non-negotiable.