No relationship lives in black and white—and apparently, neither do I.

In Act I, I told you about Cheri—the first friend who saw me without flinching. That friendship cracked something open in me, and then it broke me when it ended.

In Act II, I picked up the pieces and tried to rebuild myself out of likability, laughter, and carefully curated hugs. I said yes to everyone. I masked until I forgot I was doing it. Honestly, I’m not even sure I realized I was doing it at the time. I burned out.

Now here we are: the part where I stop pretending relationships are tidy little boxes you can label and stack. Because no matter how much I love a good binary… the truth is, I don’t fit in one.

None of us do.

These days, I’ve stopped thinking of friendship as a fixed category—something you either are or aren’t. Instead, I’ve started thinking of my friendships more like a tarot deck.

Each brings its own energy, its own lesson, its own place in the story. Some are major arcana—they shape everything. Others, like the minor arcana, are momentary. Fleeting. They show up for a season, a mood, a single question, and then disappear back into the deck, perhaps never to be pulled again.

And just like tarot, not every card needs to show up in every spread to be meaningful.

And come on—don’t we all have a card we hope stays buried in the deck? You know the one. Ahem… I meant friend.

Somewhere along the way—between the unlearning, the crashing, the rebuilding—I came up with my own shorthand for love. I still call some people my friends and others my besties.

But what I mean by “bestie” isn’t the cutesy, Instagrammable version. What I mean is what friend used to mean to me: someone I trust with my life. Someone I can go to no matter what, and know—deep in my bones—that they’ll still be there for me. Even if I’ve been a mess. Even if I’ve made it worse. Even if I’ve caused trouble just to see what would happen. They’ll still show up.

That’s not everyone. That’s rare. And that’s okay.

Because here’s the thing: there’s so much pressure in the world right now to be friends with everyone. “A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet,” they say. Which is sweet, until you realize it’s how people-pleasing gremlins are born.

When I start thinking about life that way, it sends me straight into a people-pleasing, anxiety-spiral tailspin. If everyone is a friend, how am I supposed to prioritize anything? Ever?

As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in the cafeteria of a local hospital. My dad is having some tests done—the kind of thing that stirs up worry whether you want it to or not. My partner is here too, hunched beside me at one of those comically tiny tables they must order in bulk, tapping away at his own work while I tap away at mine.

I’m listening to Avicii through eight-dollar earbuds from the hospital gift shop, trying to drown out the symphony of clangs, voices, beeps and soft-shoed chaos that comes with medical spaces.

And while I write about friendship, two people—two of my people—are texting me. Distracting me in the best way. Nudging me out of the spiral. Keeping me tethered to myself. They remind me, gently and relentlessly, that I’m not alone. That I matter.

There may have been other times in my life when people tried to love me like this—but I couldn’t let them. I didn’t know how. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust myself to be worth the effort.

But with these two? I don’t feel like a burden. Not ever. Not with them. And certainly not today.

So here’s to my two besties—the capital-B Besties who live rent-free in my sitcom brain. Women I met as an adult, but who feel like they’ve been with me all along. If I’d met them when I was seven? Game over. I would have idolized them immediately, probably followed them around like a stray cat.

It’s actually kind of how I became friends with one of them. She was super cool and we were at a conference. Both overwhelmed by the extroversion, we were collected by the same loving extrovert and packed into a little friend group together. Her name is Mika and I thought she was way too fucking cool to be friends with me.

Mika is a walking contradiction in the best way: wildly smart, deeply principled, and still somehow hilarious at the most inappropriate times. I met her in the WordPress world, where she was already a legend—plugin expert, open source champion, fierce community defender. She’s also the co-founder of LezWatch.TV, a deeply nerdy and gloriously queer database tracking representation in TV. She’s sharp, stubborn, and has the kind of loyalty that makes you feel like maybe you’re not as broken as you think. I didn’t know it back then, but she’d go on to become one of the safest people I’ve ever known. One of my truest friends.

And then there’s the girl named James. I met James in the early 2000s when I was falling in love with tech—and with Portland—all over again. She was already deep in her work at Small Society, creating mobile experiences that were changing the game for iphone users the world over. We crossed paths trying to book her business partner for a podcast episode, but I was mostly looking for an excuse to talk to her.   

She’s a creative force—brilliant, compassionate, and always three steps ahead. Whether she’s leading human-centered design, helping others scale with grace, or taking the best care of those she’s responsible for. James sees the details that matter and the people behind them. She’s had my back in quiet moments and pivotal ones. I’ve grown smarter, braver, and infinitely weirder because she’s been by my side.

They’re the kind of people I’d do anything for. No hesitation. No tally marks. Just—yes. Of course. Where and when? I’d give them the world and still feel like it wasn’t enough. And I know from experience they will give the same. 

Friends? That label doesn’t even come close. They’re something more—ride-or-dies with sharp minds and warmer hearts, the kind of people who keep the lights on when your own fuse blows. The ones who call you on your bullshit and hold your hand after. Who stay, even when the script gets real fucking weird.

So there you have it. Act I cracked me open. Act II nearly buried me. And Act III? That’s where I finally stopped forcing myself—and everyone else—into boxes we were never meant to fit.

The truth is, friendship isn’t black and white. It’s not even gray.

It’s a full, glorious spectrum.

And I’m on it. Loudly. Bluntly. Softly. Devastatingly.

Thanks for loving me anyway. And for being here. 

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So now I’m curious—what’s your personal litmus test for a bestie? Like… what’s the moment you know they’re in the forever club, not just the group chat?