There’s an old country song by Tracy Lawrence called Find Out Who Your Friends Are.

I’ve heard that song more times than I can count. I’ve probably sung along to it without ever really stopping to think about what it meant.

But lately?

That song keeps finding its way into my head.

And let me tell you, it hits a little differently when you’re living through something that makes you understand it.

Because when life throws a metaphorical bomb into the middle of everything you’ve known, you learn a lot.

About yourself.

About the people around you.

And about what friendship really looks like when things get hard.

I’ve always considered myself a pretty outgoing person. I’m energetic, I love people, and I’ve always felt like I had a pretty big circle.

I’m also the person who shows up.

Need someone to talk to? Call me.

Having a rough day? I’m listening.

Going through something difficult? I’ll do whatever I can to help.

I’ve been there for births, deaths, family crises, celebrations, heartbreaks, and just about everything in between.

And I don’t say that because I’m looking for a medal.

I say it because that’s just who I’ve always been.

Somewhere along the way, though, I think I developed this expectation that when my turn came, when I was the one who needed someone, that same energy would come back to me.

Not because friendship should be transactional.

But because I thought that’s what friendship looked like.

And recently, I’ve learned that the number of people who show up when life gets really hard might be smaller than the number you expected.

I’m not going to lie.

That realization stung a little.

There are people I’ve stood beside through some of the biggest moments of their lives who I haven’t heard from.

People whose phone calls I’ve answered. Whose tears I’ve listened to. Whose struggles I’ve tried to help carry.

And part of me wonders if they’re waiting for me to reach out.

Because that’s what I’ve always done.

I’ve always been the strong one.

The one who figures things out.

The one who handles whatever life throws at her.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t want to have to be the strong one right now.

For once, I wish someone would recognize that I’m struggling without me having to explain it.

That someone would pick up the phone just to say, “Hey, I know things are hard. How are you really doing?”

Not because I expect anyone to fix my problems.

Not because I need someone to rescue me.

But because sometimes, when you’re barely keeping your head above water, even asking for help feels exhausting.

And I think that’s been one of the hardest lessons of this chapter.

Learning that being the person everyone depends on doesn’t necessarily mean people recognize when you’re the one who needs support.

But before this turns into a post about disappointment, let me tell you about the other side of this experience.

Because there have been people who have shown up.

And those people?

I don’t think they’ll ever fully understand what they’ve meant to me.

There’s someone in my life who didn’t have to stand beside me through any of this.

Someone who could have easily stepped away when everything changed.

But she didn’t.

She listened long before I was ready to admit to myself just how much needed to change.

And even now, she checks in.

Sometimes it’s nothing more than a random message asking if I’m okay.

Nothing elaborate. Nothing dramatic.

Just a reminder that someone is thinking about me.

And those little messages have meant more than she probably realizes.

Then there’s my best friend.

Recently, I reached a point where I finally had to admit that I wasn’t doing nearly as well as I’d been telling myself.

And admitting that?

That was hard.

Really hard.

I had spent so much time convincing myself that I could handle everything, that I was okay, that I just needed to keep moving forward.

But eventually, I had to acknowledge that I needed help.

And when I finally took that step, I shared it with my best friend.

The response wasn’t some long, beautifully written speech.

It wasn’t a list of things I needed to do.

It was simply:

“I’m proud of you.”

Three words.

That’s it.

And somehow, those three words were exactly what I needed.

Because in that moment, I didn’t need someone to tell me how to fix my life.

I needed someone to recognize how hard it had been to admit that I was struggling.

I needed someone to remind me that asking for help wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

And those three words did exactly that.

There have been other moments, too.

The late-night conversations.

The unexpected check-ins.

The people who have listened while I cried, sometimes when I couldn’t even explain why I was crying.

The ones who didn’t try to solve everything.

The ones who simply said, “I’ve got you.”

And meant it.

Those are the people who have helped me through some of the hardest moments of my life.

And here’s something else I’ve been thinking about.

I’ve spent so much of my life being available for everyone else that somewhere along the way, I stopped making enough room for myself.

My own wants.

My own needs.

The things I wanted to experience.

The things I should have been doing for me.

And honestly, I started recognizing that long before my life changed.

I don’t regret being there for people.

I don’t want to become someone who stops caring or stops showing up.

That’s not who I am.

But I am beginning to understand that being a good friend shouldn’t mean constantly putting myself last.

That I can love people and still have boundaries.

That I can be supportive without carrying everyone else’s problems.

And that sometimes, I deserve to be the one who’s supported, too.

I don’t know what all of my friendships will look like as I move through this next chapter.

I don’t know if some people will eventually reach out, or if some relationships will naturally change.

And I’m not angry about that.

People have their own lives. Their own struggles. Their own things they’re trying to navigate.

I understand that.

But I am paying attention to what this experience is teaching me.

Not about who deserves a place in my life.

But about what it feels like when someone genuinely shows up.

Because when you’re at one of the lowest points of your life, you learn something about the people who stand beside you.

And sometimes, those people are the reason you find the strength to keep climbing.

I’ve spent years being the person who holds the rope for everyone else.

The one who reaches down, grabs on, and does everything she can to help pull someone back up when life knocks them down.

But recently, I’ve been the one at the bottom.

And I can tell you something.

It’s a very different feeling when you’re the one looking up.

When you’re exhausted.

When you’re scared.

When you’re not sure you have the strength to keep climbing.

And then you look around and realize there are people standing beside you.

Holding the rope.

Refusing to let go.

They can’t climb the mountain for you.

They can’t take away everything you’re going through.

But they can remind you that you don’t have to do it alone.

And sometimes, that’s everything.

So, to the people who have checked in.

To the ones who have answered the phone.

To the ones who have listened to me cry.

To the ones who have reminded me that I’m stronger than I feel.

And especially to the ones who have simply said, “I’ve got you.”

Thank you.

You have been my rock through more moments than you’ll probably ever know.

You have helped me find my footing when I wasn’t sure I could stand.

And when I was at my lowest, you stood beside me and held the rope until I could start pulling myself back up.

I don’t know that I’ll ever find the right words to explain what that means to me.

But I hope you know this.

I couldn’t imagine walking through this life without you.

And if there’s one thing this chapter has taught me, it’s that friendship isn’t measured by how many people are in your circle.

Sometimes it’s measured by the hands that are still holding the rope when you need them most.

The fog is still lifting.

And I’m grateful beyond words for the people helping me find my way through it.