Where Are My People?

I turn 40 this September. It’s meant to be one of those milestone birthdays — the kind people throw parties for, toast with lifelong friends, maybe even reflect with a slideshow. And yet, here I am, not even sure who I’d invite.

It’s not that I don’t know people. I do. I’ve had great nights out, worked with incredible colleagues, and trained beside some of the most supportive people you could meet. I’ve always had people in my orbit. But I’ve rarely had someone on the journey with me from start to now. No “person.” No best friend from school who still texts me on my birthday. No regular catch-ups where the conversation picks up exactly where we left off.

Some of that, I’ll admit, is on me. But a lot of it has deeper roots.

I went to four different primary schools as a kid. We moved around a lot, and with every move came the same lesson: don’t get too attached. Then came high school — an all-boys Catholic school in a state where it was still illegal to be gay. Let’s just say… it wasn’t the place you went to discover yourself or build trust.

Later, I changed schools again for Years 11 and 12, then left for university, and as soon as I could, I moved to Sydney. Each chapter brought new people — new social codes, new masks to wear, new ways to fit in. I became incredibly good at making friends quickly. But holding onto them? That’s another story.

When you’re constantly starting over, you become a master at beginnings — and sometimes, a bit careless with the middle parts. I lost touch. I ghosted people without meaning to. I changed cities, changed scenes, and if I’m honest, changed myself more times than I can count. Friendships, like so many things in my life, became seasonal.

For a long time, I blamed myself. I thought I was just bad at friendship. I told myself I was too busy, too intense, too “much.” I threw myself into work, relationships, and at times, partying — where the connection was fast, fizzy, and just as fleeting.

Then, 27 months ago, I got sober.

Sobriety changes more than your Friday nights. It changes your lens. Suddenly, you notice the people who were only there when the drinks were flowing. You realise how often you said yes to things you didn’t want, just to avoid being alone. You see the relationships that were built on proximity, not depth.

When I got sober, my values shifted. My tolerance for shallow connections disappeared. Some friends faded. Others… I had to let go of, because we were no longer on the same page. And as grateful as I am for the clarity, it’s left me staring down 40 with a bit of an ache in my chest. An ache I haven’t always known how to name.

It’s envy, I think — but not the bitter kind. The quiet kind. The kind that surfaces when I see people surrounded by their best friends from school. The ones who’ve “done life” together. The ones who are godparents to each other’s kids. Who’ve weathered breakups, weddings, losses, and still show up.

I never really had that. And sometimes, I wonder if I ever will.

According to recent studies, I’m not alone. Adult friendship — especially among men, and especially among gay men — is harder than anyone wants to admit. Many of us weren’t taught how to build emotional intimacy outside of romantic or sexual relationships. We’re told that friends are optional, not foundational. But they are. They are foundational. And when you don’t have them, you feel it.

You feel it on a Tuesday night when you’re sad and can’t name why. You feel it when something great happens and there’s no one who truly knows your backstory to celebrate with. You feel it when you look at your birthday on the calendar and feel more panic than joy.

I’ve read a lot of great pieces lately about how friendship takes structure and repetition — not just vibes. One suggested scheduling recurring catch-ups, the way you would a meeting. Another explored how many people experience friendlessness not as loneliness, but as a kind of neutral solitude — sometimes even a choice. I get that too.

There have been moments over the past couple of years when I’ve loved my own company. When I’ve needed the space. When healing required solitude. But as I get older, I’m realising healing isn’t the goal. Belonging is.

And that takes effort.

So here’s what I’m trying: I’m reaching out. I’m reconnecting with people I lost touch with — even if it feels awkward. I’m inviting people for walks, coffee, workouts. I’m being honest about where I’m at, instead of pretending I’m fine. I’m learning to say: “Hey, I’d really love to have more consistency in our friendship. Want to catch up regularly?” And yes, I’m also learning that not everyone will say yes. But the ones who do? They’re gold.

As for my 40th? I still don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe it won’t be a big party. Maybe it’ll be a few people around a table, sharing a meal, with laughter and no expectations to drink. Maybe it’ll be a workout followed by breakfast. Maybe it’ll be something totally new — and totally me.

Because the truth is, it’s not about having ten people who’ve known you forever. It’s about finding a few who see you clearly now, and want to walk with you into whatever’s next.

If that’s you — if any of this resonates — I see you. I really do.

We’re all trying to find our people. Some of us are just taking the scenic route.