possibilities

asking for what we want in friendships

Henri Matisse, 1922

How do I build deeper friendships? What does “deeper” even mean? This question has been on my mind lately, and yet, I don’t subscribe to a platonic ideal of friendship. I don’t think friendships have to follow a certain path of progression to achieve a “standard of excellence.” We need all sorts of friends in our lives. The ones we catch up with infrequently over dinner and the ones who witness us week to week or day by day. The friends we only see at the climbing gym or dance studio or pickleball court and those we go on physical and spiritual journeys with. We need them all.

As an adult, I have a hard time defining what a “close friend” means, and I think this is because old measures of closeness—like time spent together or how much “fun” we’re having—no longer hold true as we acquire more responsibilities that make demands on our time.

Many adults feel vaguely unfulfilled in their friendships but can’t put their finger on why. My theory is that it has something to do with expecting a lot from our romantic partners and very little from our friends, so we’re barely scratching the surface of what’s possible. For example, if you wanted a friend to reach out to you more often, but it’s not a burning itch, you might let it pass. It bothers you from time to time, but for the most part, you ignore it. They’re probably busy, you tell yourself. On the other hand, if you wanted the person you’re dating to check in with you more, you’d probably agonize over why they’re not responding faster to your texts, unable to focus on anything else until you get an answer.

I can’t make the same requests of my friends that I do of my significant other is an engrained belief that many of us share, and when everyone in a group believes something to be true and acts in accordance with that belief, it becomes the reality. The result? A wasteland of unrealized, potential connection.

They’re busy and don’t have time for me. Because we look up to our friends (that’s why they’re our friends!) and may even put them on a pedestal, we assume that they always have something more important to focus on than us. And when both people believe this and don’t reach out, they’re trapped in a deadlock of passive silence. As much as I complain about friends who get into a relationship and disappear, I’m complicit in the problem because I hold the fatalistic belief that they’re too preoccupied with their partner to have time for me.

If they cared about me, they would’ve done x, y, z. L told me about a disappointing situation in which she put a lot of time and effort into making her friend’s birthday special, but when L’s own birthday came around, her friend didn’t even ask her how she wanted to celebrate. One of the qualities I admire about L is her independence. She is one of the most capable people I know. But I think this also works against her: people assume she’s got everything under control and doesn’t need help unless she explicitly asks for it.

When you don’t ask for what you want, people don’t show up for you in the ways that you would like. The more intimate the relationship, the more we tend to fall into the trap of thinking they should just know what we want, and while some people might achieve a level of telepathy, no one can fully know you. When they mess up, it’s not because they don’t care, it’s because they don’t know how you want to be cared for.

All relationships evolve from a series of back-and-forth requests ranging from low stakes (e.g. asking a friend to grab lunch) to extremely consequential (e.g. asking a friend to be the guardian of your child). Vulnerability is the beating heart of all relationships, and how comfortable you are being vulnerable with someone is a more accurate measure of closeness than time spent together.

In the epilogue of Nonviolent Communication, the psychologist Marshall Rosenberg tells a story about his grandmother who fed and sheltered a homeless person named Jesus for many years. 

As the man continued to eat, my grandmother asked where he lived.

“I don’t have a home.” 

“Well, where are you going to stay tonight? It’s cold.”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you like to stay here?” she offered. 

He stayed for seven years. 

What struck me about this story is that the man merely states a fact: he doesn’t have a place to stay. He doesn’t ask if he can spend the night or make any sort of direct request. Rosenberg’s grandmother infers from his statement of fact that he may need shelter and offers it to him. The flip side of asking for what you want is being curious about the other person’s experience—asking them questions to uncover what they might want or need. With all the shame and pride we carry, we can all use a little invitation, a nudge, to ask for what we want.