Still Becoming: On Friendship, Identity, and Starting Again

I thought I’d be done by now.

Not done as in over. But done as in finished. Sorted. Life, by 40, was meant to be a little more solid. The friendship group. The identity. The routines. The Sunday morning text thread. The who-you-call-when-something-good-or-bad-happens list.

But here I am. Nearly 40. Starting again.

It’s not a crisis. I’m not flailing. In fact, I feel more grounded than ever. I’ve never been clearer about who I am — or who I’m not. I’ve worked hard to build a life that feels purposeful, one that prioritises health, connection, and meaning over chaos. And yet, something still aches: the quiet, awkward gap between wanting deeper friendships and realising how hard they can be to make — and keep — in midlife.

The Myth of Being Fully Formed

We grow up believing adulthood is some sort of arrival — a final, polished version of yourself, accompanied by a fixed inner circle. You make friends, fall in love, build your career, lock it in.

But the truth is, people move. They drift. They change. You change. Some friendships hold, others fray. Not always out of drama. Sometimes just distance. Kids. Jobs. Time zones. Healing.

I used to think losing touch was a failure. Now I know it’s part of becoming. And the process of becoming never ends.

What no one tells you is how much midlife mirrors your early 20s — except this time, you’re wiser, lonelier, and far more discerning.

Platonic Chemistry and the Second First Date

I recently met someone I really clicked with. Not romantically — platonically. And I mean that in the most intimate, electric way. We talked about books, recovery, chosen family, being gay and over apps. We laughed. There was resonance. Recognition.

It felt like the adult version of love at first sight — except this time, it was friendship at first understanding.

We don’t talk enough about that kind of chemistry. The kind where you walk away thinking: I hope I didn’t say too much. I hope they liked me too. The kind that makes you nervous in the best way. The kind that makes you want to text: "So, when can I see you again?"

And then comes the hard part — maintaining it. Building it. Navigating schedules and vulnerabilities and the fear of seeming too eager. Or worse: not getting a reply.

The Adult Friendship Paradox

Studies show it takes more than 200 hours to turn a stranger into a close friend. But who has 200 free hours at 40?

Life, by now, is full. And paradoxically, it’s that fullness — the jobs, the partners, the healing work, the emotional fatigue — that makes friendship more necessary than ever. Because while romantic love may get the spotlight, platonic love is often the thing that holds us together.

It’s the friend who checks in. The one who remembers your sobriety date. The one who makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. The one who sits in the car with you for five minutes more, just to finish a conversation.

But adult friendship asks something of us that’s easy to resist: effort. Initiation. Consistency. Vulnerability. All the things we gave so freely in our youth now feel like emotional investments with uncertain returns.

And yet — what’s the alternative?

The Slow Work of Building Something That Lasts

This year I’ve been trying something different. Instead of waiting for friendships to just happen, I’ve been creating space for them. Reaching out. Suggesting regular walks. Being honest about wanting more depth. Saying, "I’d love us to be in each other’s lives more."

Not everyone reciprocates. That’s okay.

But when someone does — when someone says yes, and keeps saying yes — that’s gold.

We often think reinvention is about career or appearance. But sometimes it’s about connection. About being willing to say: I want something better. Deeper. More consistent.

Midlife doesn’t have to be the decade where friendship goes to die. It can be the moment where it deepens. Where we stop performing and start participating. Where we admit we’re still becoming — and invite others to become with us.

A Sketch of Heaven

There’s a quote I’ve always loved by Emily Dickinson: "My only sketch, profile, of Heaven is a large, blue sky, bluer and larger than the biggest I have seen in June, and in it are my friends—all of them—every one of them.”

I think about that a lot lately. Not as a sentiment, but as a hope. A quiet, persistent belief that the friendships we need aren’t behind us — they’re still ahead. Maybe just one message, one walk, one unexpected conversation away.

So, if you’re reading this and you feel the ache — the one that whispers you should have figured this out by now — please know: you’re not behind. You’re right on time.

Reach out. Risk the awkwardness. Say the thing.

There’s still time to build a life that’s full of the people who see you, stretch you, and stay.

It might not be easy. But it will be worth it.